


Evil in his Eye

by Hel_in_NL



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Child Abuse, Horror, Lovecraftian, M/M, Murder, Past Child Abuse, Suicide, Survival
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2020-10-06 13:23:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 56,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20507705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hel_in_NL/pseuds/Hel_in_NL
Summary: A gathering is taking place. There are many secrets to be had and truths to be discovered.Not all gods are good.(The Lovecraft/King story that no one asked for.)





	1. Chapter 1

Aziraphale usually had troubles when leaving the safety of Soho and those troubles took on many different forms. He wasn’t overly fond of travel as once he was settled in a location he tended to stay there, not even to go on holiday. He had travelled exactly three times in his life, once with his Nanny and Mother to London to visit boarding schools when that had still been on the table, again to London after the passing of his Mother, and he was currently involved in the third. He disliked change, he disliked trying to resettle in other places, and he certainly hated the discomfort travelling brought. Almost all of his business was conducted by phone or by way of trusted ‘agents’ that he’d handsomely pay to travel on his behalf. 

He also had a problem with people not minding their own affairs and instead making a go at his own. Oh, Aziraphale liked people well enough. He paid an exorbitant membership fee to a gentlemen's clubs where he had many acquaintances, he held a book club every fortnight, and he was never at a loss for what to do on Saturday night as he always had an invite to a gala at  _ this _ museum or  _ that _ gallery. He did not have much by way of close friends but that suited him fine. He valued his own privacy far too much to indulge in such familiarity. 

Strangers seemed to most often have a problem with his unusual name. He so often found himself having to field all manner of intrusive question that such interactions might have been scripted. He was having one such conversation with his compartment mate at the present. 

“Aziraphale...Aziraphale,” the man across from him rolled the name around his thick tongue in not an entirely way. His accent was charming where very little else about him was. The gentleman had long ago grayed and had probably started losing his hair just as long. He was poorly shaven, frumpy, smelled of stale whiskey and cigarettes. 

He had introduced himself as a Witch Finder which, honestly, might have been an interesting topic of conversation. Instead they were held up on Aziraphale’s name.

“Is that a Christian name, then?” Shadwell looked at him sharply, scanning him from head to toe in a way that Aziraphale was familiar with and knew would not bode well for him if he wasn’t careful.

“Very,” he replied with a patient, if not forced, smile. “It’s biblical.”

“So yer father named ya that?” The man persisted, seemingly very interested in Aziraphale’s shiny, Italian leather shoes. He fought the urge to tuck his feet under the seat, reasoning that would do nothing to hide them from view. 

“No. I chose it for myself.” He put a certain amount of force at the end of the statement, intent on making that the end of this vein of conversation. 

Shadwell did not bite. 

“Ah, picked ye own name, didyae?” His small, watery eyes crawled up his beige pants, as if examining the cut. “Something saddled to yer old name thatyae had to leave behind?”

“Family matters.” Aziraphale answered tersely, clasping his hands primly before him at his knees. This proved to be a mistake as it immediately drew the man’s greedy eyes to the solid gold signet ring that adorned his pinky finger. Blast it! He should have packed it away with his luggage! 

Shadwell seemed to be gearing up to question him further but they were saved by the whistle of the train preparing to depart from its most recent stop and the jolt of the breaks being released. Aziraphale took immediate advantage of this distraction to take out the letter that had started this whole journey. He had read it at least a hundred times already but his novel was packed in the overhead and this was a more immediate way to indicate that he was no fielding further questions. 

He caressed the letter tenderly, flattening it with care. It was a fine piece of thick, parchment and the ink of the writing was vermillion. It was such a fine looking letter he found himself obsessed with it, as if there was a mystery to be solved just by reading and re-reading it.

_ ‘Aziraphale, proprietor of A.Z. Fell’s Unusual Books and Antiquities. _

_ You are cordially invited for a weekend of education, libations, and good company under the good will of your host, Master Lucien Mos to celebrate the eleventh birthday of his only son, Warlock Mos, and the completion of the renovation of their new estate. You have been hand picked to attend as a foremost expert in your field.  _

_ The Mos Estate is home to a library that is vast as the sea and a collection of unique artifacts that would leave any museum ashamed. You will have complete access to our Masters knowledge and free reign to handle even the rarest of objects. You come highly recommended by one Anthony J. Crowley-’ _

This was always where Aziraphale always needed to take pause as flashes of honeyed eyes, copper hair, and sincere smiles clouded his thoughts. That name was one that haunted his waking mind everyday for the past decade. Anthony J. Crowley. The name alone made something bitter twist in him. Something confusing, maddening, and heartbroken. 

He took what he hoped was a subtle, deep breath. He knew the rest of the letter by heart. The date. The time of his train departure. The name of the man who would be awaiting them at their final stop. 

Aziraphale was too proud to admit to himself he had only reread the letter so much to see that name written out. To have the ghost of his thoughts confirmed.

Anthony J. Crowley existed. He  _ hadn’t _ just made him up. 

And Aziraphale was determined to see him again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_ ‘Miss Anathema Device, Witch. _

_ You are cordially invited for a weekend of education, libations, and good company under the good will of your host, Master Lucien Mos to celebrate the eleventh birthday of his only son, Warlock Mos, and the completion of the renovation of their new estate. You have been hand picked to attend as a foremost expert in your field. _

_ The Mos Estate has a vast library and, among the tomes, it has come to our attention that we have a copy of a manuscript written by one Agnes Nutter. We have been lead to believe that this woman is of direct ancestry-’ _

Anathema folded her letter over, tucked it in one of the many pockets concealed within her dress, and turned her bespectacled gaze to the quickly passing European countryside. She was tired, having arrived from America only hours before getting on the train, but dared no nap. She was a single woman travelling alone and, while her compartment currently only held herself, she heard one too many horror stories of women waking up with a strangers hand on their thigh for her liking. 

It was in her best interest to stay alert and ponder the mystery of Agnes Nutters book. The letter writer had been correct; Nutter was her maternal ancestor and she had written a book. She had written exactly one book, in fact, and only one copy had existed.

That book had burned up in a house fire some ten years earlier. 

To say Anathema was skeptical of the letters claims was an understatement. More than likely someone had conned this Master Lucien Mos with a fake book of prophecy. Yet, when she consulted her crystals and cards, they all seemed to point her in the direction of the Mos estate. 

The dream of Agnes Nutter blatantly telling her to ‘seek out Mos’ sealed the deal for her and she RSVP’d the very next morning. 

When one had a dream about a distant relative telling them to go to Europe one was simply unable to ignore it.

Anathema was a prophetess as well, after all. 

She’d be remiss to not seek the truth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A robin was in his slingshots sights. He followed it intently, tracking its movements. The pebble in the taut rubber tubing was ready to let fly-

“Warlock?” His name was called from the road side where his caretaker had been changing the tire to the fancy Bentley they drove. The bird took to the air and the boy grumbled. 

“Nanny!” He whined as he shuffled back to the car. “I almost had a bird!”

The man tossed the flat into the ditch carelessly, with a curse under his breath,retrieved his hat from where it had been perched on the hood ornament and fitted it over red hair. “Shoulda took your shot when you had it, young master.”

The boy crossed his arms over his chest. “I did have it.”

“Not well enough.” The passenger door was opened and the boy clambered in with a huff. “Bird did nothin’ to you anyways.”

“I know...but it would have been neat to go back to school and tell Richard about it! Or Adam!” Warlock was beaming at his caretaker but it was all surface level. A test.

Ah, there it was. A tick at the jaw, a bob of his adams apple. “Now, now. They don’t need to know you didn’t actually hit the bird, young master.” His voice was tight. Nanny was acting weird. 

Every time he spoke of school he acted like it was painful. 

Warlock wasn’t sure what to make of it yet but both Father and Nanny always said it was best to observe first, act later. Nanny was especially adamant about keeping one’s cards close to their chest and never letting on just how much one knew at any time. Plausible deniability, he called it. 

Nanny taught all the best lessons. Warlock looked forward to his time with Nanny more than his time with Father. Nanny was warm and funny. Nanny was clever and sneaky. Nanny held his hand when he was scared, in the time before boarding school, and told him that it was okay. 

Nanny was often scared as well. 

Then, after he went away, Nanny would write letters weekly or send postcards from the exotic locations Father sent him off too. Syria, Brazil, Egypt, even Antarctica. It seemed Father was intent on sending Nanny to all four corners of the known world yet there was always letters. 

Father wrote once a month, at best.

Nanny always made time for Warlock. Every time he was close to school he’d drop in to see him, even if it was late at night. He’d knock at Warlocks window and they’d whisper to each other. Warlock would tell him all about what he was learning or gossip about his schoolmates. Nanny would tell him about strange animal he’d seen or crumbling temples he had to visit. The best stories.

Nanny was very brave, even when he was scared.

He was scared right now. His eyes were still hidden behind his dark glasses but Warlock knew the signs. White-knuckling the steering wheel and pressing the accelerator with more force that was strictly needed. “Ah shite. We’re going to miss the train and the carriage. Stupid bloody pot holes….” 

They were going to be very late. 

Father did not like to be kept waiting.

Warlock got scared when Father was disappointed.

Nanny did as well. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has a past.

The Witchfinder got off the train at the last stop on the line, the same as Aziraphale. A pang of anxiety was beginning to worm its way into his chest at the thought that this man would quite possibly be in his presence for the entire weekend. He was already considering buying a ticket back home. 

Whatever doubts he had were washed away when he stepped out onto the platform and realized others were waiting as well. 

The first of note was a tall woman of a darker complexion wearing round spectacles and a style of dress his mother might have worn in her youth. Her long dark hair was neatly wound into a tight bun and pinned with a golden comb. Dark eyes carefully examined her surroundings, as if no detail was too small to passover. 

Shadwell made a rather poisonous noise as he also noted the woman's presence, his upper lip curling. No doubt he thought her a witch simply because she was a beautiful woman travelling on her own. Nonsense. 

Next from the train came a dark haired young man in a rumpled, poorly tailored suit. He had a soft look about the face and an awkward ganglyness that Aziraphale knew some of his compatriots back at the club would swoon over. He stopped to push his wire framed glasses backup over his nose before retrieving a shabby suitcase and...a bulging, pink satin bag? 

“Oh thank you ever so much, dearie!” A familiar voice followed the young man, tugging a smile to the corners of Aziraphale’s lips. Ah! This trip had gotten so much more interesting!

A woman, a few years older than Aziraphale, joined the young man and clung to his arm as if she belonged there. Her hair was blonde and wild, as were the clothing she wore. Actually, Aziraphale knew this woman to be an eccentric type no matter where she went. 

She quickly spied him once she stepped onto the platform. 

“Well, God above! Aziraphale!” She released the harried young man she had attached herself too, missing his look of relief as she did so, and hurried over, embracing Aziraphale and kissing each of his cheeks. “If I’d known you were travelling as well I’d have insisted we shared a compartment! Young Newton here was fine companionship but I think I’ve talked his ear off!”

Aziraphale had little doubt she had. 

“Madame Tracey, such a pleasure to see you.” He took her hand and kissed it courteously, if only because he knew it would make her titter in a pleasant way. “It’s been, what? A year?”

“Two, darling!” She laughed and swatted at him playfully. “Since that seance young Master Smith held at his flat. Do you remember? You were three sheets to the wind on a snifter of brandy.”   
  
A flush crawled across Aziraphales face but he couldn't hide his mischievous smile. “Oh hush now. We’re in polite company! No one needs to hear about my indiscretions.” Yet he stage whispered it all, delighting in the theatrics and the curious looks. 

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll see how you can be soon enough.” Madame Tracey smiled in that mysterious, knowing way that always gave Aziraphale a funny feeling deep down in his tummy. “This weekend will no doubt prove to be...interesting.” 

That was a statement worth questioning. Madame Tracey was known across Europe as having a unique gift, on that had rich and poor alike calling her to all corners to connect to the ‘other side’. Aziraphale had once had the privilege of seeing her gift first hand and knew it to be truly unexplainable. 

Before he could press her for what she may know a finally passenger offloaded on to the platform, dragging a large, prussian blue steamer trunk behind him. He dropped it unceremoniously, with a loud bang. “Finally.”

American. Aziraphale suppressed a shudder. 

This man was tall, broad, handsome, and impeccably dressed in a well tailored, dark gray suit. Wealth and power radiated from this man in a way that only the upper crust could generate. Aziraphale knew the type. He’d been around them all his life. 

The new comer dusted himself off and surveyed the rest on the platform, a polite smile lining his lips. “Master Mos certainly has assembled a strange crowd, hasn’t he?” He inclined his head, tucking his hands behind him, and stood straighter. “I’m Gabriel.”

Something in Aziraphale churned and twisted.

Madame Tracys hand tightening on his bicep and her wide, worried eyes spoke volumes to him. She liked everyone yet this man was giving her pause.

Aziraphale decided he most certainly did not like Gabriel.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Watching Nanny talk on the telephone was always a painful experience. It was clear he didn’t know what to do with his hands as they kept shifting from his pockets, to the phone wire, to picking at the flaking paint on the tavern wall. His leg was bouncing anxiously as he waited to be connected.

Warlock sipped water from a foggy glass, watching the room intently. This wasn’t a place for little boys, not even the ones that were turning eleven in a day. The men here were grizzled and tired, mostly keeping to themselves as they nursed their lagers. He didn’t see people like this back at school. Everyone there was well groomed and bright eyed. They’d probably never look like these men, no matter how old they got to be. 

Nanny didn’t look like these men. Nanny was pretty, even though Father worked him like a dog. Before Warlock left for boarding school Nanny had been the one primarily responsible for his care. He fed, clothed, and bathed him. He taught him how to read and how to play the piano. He taught him how to talk to things that couldn’t be seen and what plants in the garden could heal, which could harm. There was barely a moment when Nanny wasn’t at his side back then. 

None of the servant at Father’s home looked like these men. Hastur was tall, white haired, and often dour but he couldn’t recall a time he’d seen the man pick up a drink. Beelzebub was petite, pale, and sarcastic but she didn’t stink of exhaustion. Ligur was dark, strong, and ill tempered but always doing something. Dagon...well...he couldn’t say much about Dagon. They were often hidden away in Fathers offices, working on one thing or another, never taking the time to talk or play in the way the others could be coaxed into. 

Nanny was his favorite. Nanny didn’t like it when others called him Nanny but smiled when Warlock did it. 

Nanny so rarely really smiled. He didn’t like showing his teeth the same way he didn’t like showing his eyes. 

Warlock understood. Nanny was special, after all, and people feared what was special. 

“Alright, young master, time to hit the road. Ligurs already on his way to pick up your father guest. We won’t make it ahead ‘em.” Nanny sounded defeated, frustrated with himself. 

“It’s okay though, right?” Warlock questioned, keen eyes studying his caretaker. 

A twitch of coppery eyebrows, a flexing of long fingers. “Yeh. Don’t worry, kid. If Master Mos is going to be mad at anyone it will be me.”

Warlock didn’t like that one bit. Father was harsh on Nanny. Sometimes it seemed he set up Nanny to fail just so he could punish him. Seeing him get punished was...unpleasant. 

“I don’t want you to get in trouble, Nanny.”

His caretaker glanced about anxiously. Some of the men were looking at him with strange expressions. Disgust? Why would they be disgusted with someone as pretty as Nanny? “Best...best not call me that here, kid.”

Warlock didn’t get it but he nodded. Nanny usually knew what he was talking about. 

They wasted little time in the tavern after that. Nanny simply murmured thanks to the bar keeper and left as quickly as possible, Warlock in hand. Once they were seated safely inside the car Nanny let out a long, hissing breath through his teeth. 

“Warlock...some men...well. They don’t understand a lot of things. They know one way and only one. They make gross assumptions and will let you know how much they dislike ya with their fists.” Nanny started the car as Warlock listen raptly. These lessons always proved useful. “When we’re out in places like that, with strange company, you best just call me Crowley. It’s safer for both of us.”

Warlock frowned. “Why not Anthony?”   
  
“I like Crowley better. Anthony was my father's name.” He nearly spat the admission like it tasted foul on his tongue. Nanny didn’t like talking about his parents much. They had served Father before Nanny and passed away while he was in the war, long before Warlock was born. He’d seen pictures. 

Nanny was never smiling in them.

“Alright Nann-Crowley.” It felt weird coming from his mouth. Kind of like cursing. 

A small, faint smile twitched at the corners of his caretakers mouth as he pulled onto the road. “Don’t worry, young sir. You can still call me Nanny while we’re alone and in front of those we trust, alright?”

Warlock smiled, relieved.

“Yes, Nanny.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The carriage that picked the group up at the platform was impossibly decadent and large. They all fit inside with little trouble, their luggage secured to the roof by the footman, a dark man with jaundiced eyes who called himself Ligur. Such strange names they all had!

Madame Tracey laughed to herself. It was a rare that she felt the most normal in a group. 

A silence had lapsed over the carriage as they rocked and jaunted up a dirt road, pulled by two steeds that were white as winter snow. Pale horses. Bad omens.

This whole trip had a feeling of a bad omen.

She used the time she had to observe her fellow party goers. Speaking with the dead and reaching beyond the veil was much easier when one had a good grasp of the people that would be involved. Master Mos had not indicated in her letter she had been summoned to perform a seance or some other feat but it was always best to be prepared. Who knew what kind of urges too much high priced liquor might bring on!

Aziraphale she knew. They ran in overlapping circles and she considered him a distant friend. He had let her read several of his rarer books of prophecy and magic a few years ago, something he rarely did if their mutual acquaintances words were anything to go by. She knew him to be a believer in the occult but not a practitioner. Whatever knowledge he had was that of curator and collector. She couldn’t call him harmless, as she had seen him in his younger days when he was still sowing his wild oats after a lifetime of oppression. She could call him clever and compassionate, however. A loyal friend when one needed it. 

Those that followed him from Beyond were often proud of him. She had yet to find a way to tell him this without the man shushing her. 

The only other woman, Anathema Device, was a delightful curiosity. It was always nice to see the next generation of occultists and witches come into their own. This own was self assured, confident, but stiff. She could have been so much more powerful if it weren’t for the guilt that was weighing on her aura like a stone. 

A descendant of Agnes Nutter, no doubt. How interesting! Was she a prophet as well? 

Sergeant Shadwell sat close to the window, brow furrowed and expression discontented. The coachman had demanded no smoking in the carriage and now the gentleman was pouting adorable at the passing scenery. He had a pleasant aura, despite his rough demeanor and his obvious disapproval of her and her occupation. 

A Witch Finder. How curious. She had never in her life met a Witch Finder and she wasn’t exactly subtle about her doings. 

Newton Pulsifer was dozing, poor dear. The young man was far out of his element and the stress had taken its toll. His father had been the one invited to this affair, he had revealed on the train, but was too ill to make the trip. Since his family needed to connections afforded by such an invitation that had opted to send their only son. He had none of his father’s knowledge or skill when it came to complex machinery. He felt sure he was going to ruin it all.

He had an unlucky aura. Madame Tracey was concerned for his well being. He was such a sweet young man, after all. 

This left Gabriel and the coachman, Ligur. The latter was out of her view, sitting in the driver's seat and directing the horses down increasingly narrow paths, yet she could still see flickers of his sickly, yellow aura. The man was strange. Ill tempered and wound tighter than a watch spring. The sense of otherworldly oppression clung to him like a blanket.

She’d need to keep an eye on him.

Gabriel. She could barely look at Gabriel.

Something was wrapped around the handsome man like ribbons. Rifts that formed in the air where he went. Anathema could see it as well, if her wide eyes were anything to go by. Looking at the man gave the impression of misfortune, holiness, and spilled blood. Something vile was attached to this man but she had no way of telling if it was of the man’s own making or came from somewhere else.

Madame Tracey was deadly sure of one fact.

Gabriel was dangerous.


	3. Chapter 3

The road was solid and flat despite consisting of packed down stone and mud, the occasional jostle brought on by errant roots that jutted up from beneath the surface. The forest pressed in on the invited guests, oppressing them even within the confines of their elegant carriage. Branches scraped and scratched along the outer body of the carriage and the windows revealed only dark, tightly packed forest and shadowy foliage. Night was still a few hours off yet it felt like dusk in this forbidden woods. 

Aziraphale wondered how their carriage driver fared against the overarching branches. Surely he was getting beat up as they sat in relative comfort. 

Thank God for small blessings, he supposed. He wouldn’t want to be the one out there. A forest like this no doubt contained all manners of hungry, sharp toothed beasts. He wouldn’t have been surprised if a wolf leapt from the narrow gaps in the trees and made an attempt on one of the glorious, white horses or a snake dropped from one of the high branched, coiled around their driver, and whisked him away for an early supper. 

He fought off a shudder. His imagination was in rare form, it seemed. One of the hazards of being a voracious, lifelong reader and easily discomforted by unfamiliar surroundings. No doubt if they had actually been travelling at night he’d have conjured all sorts of horrors lurking in the shadows and frightened himself witless.

Surely they’d arrive before the sun set.

Surely. 

“So-um-do any of you personally know Master Mos?” The voice was soft, unfamiliar. Aziraphale realized with a start that the young man, Newton, had finally decided to speak. He didn’t think the poor thing had spoken even to introduce himself, leaving all that to Madame Tracey. Painfully shy or perhaps he felt a little out of his element as Aziraphale often had before leaving home. 

“I nair met him,” Shadwell observed, apparently greatful for a break in the silence and heavy atmosphere. “Know of him though. Plenty of rumors if yeh know where tae look. He’s a rich’un, thae I found for sure. Family as old as the hills.”

Newton, intrigued, leaned in as if he were about to be told a secret. “Why were you invited, then? I mean, if you never met him?”

Shadwell shrugged and sat up straighter, puffing his chest out. “I’m the last WitchFinder in all of Europe! He seems to be havin’ some fascination with the occult.” He looked directly at the two women that occupied the carriage.

Madame Tracey, true to her unflappable self, waved a purple gloved hand at the old man sweetly. “Don’t you worry your handsome little head, dearie. I’m a lady through and through. A spiritualist, yes. A medium, yes. Yet still a lady.”

Shadwell huffed and frowned. “So yae know Master Mos, then?”

The woman shook her head in the negative. “I have not. That’s not so unusual though. I get invitations from all sorts in my line of work. I knew his name when I received the invitation, however, as I’ve done business with one of his servants before. I traded a trinket I had in my private collection for a crystal ball a little over five years ago.”

“Oh? What sort of trinket?” Aziraphale leaned in, trying to appear more curious and less wounded. Surely if she had something of unique value she would have sought him out? His collection of oddities was becoming quite a sight to behold and even the most accomplished collectors were beginning to take note of his rare volumes and strange tat. 

A knowing smile flitted across Madame Tracey’s painted lips. “Now, now. If I felt it was anything you’d might want I would have come to you, darling. It was simply a strange fossil I found in Dorset when I was a girl. An insect of some sort, I believe.” 

That did reassure him so he offered her a small, accepting smile. Fossils, while very interesting to naturalist and the like, were well outside his realm of expertise. He was a connoisseur of the classics. Literature, sculpture, art, cultural and religious oddities. These were where one could trace the soul of humanity and further one’s understanding!

Speaking of understanding….

Newton turned his eyes shyly to the young American woman and Aziraphale felt his stomach twist with second hand embarrassment. Oh, that was the look of young man besotted by a beauty and distinctly aware that he lacked any of the skills or talents needed to hold their attention. He was intimately familiar with that look.

He had worn it once as well. 

“Um...and you Miss Device?” The young man spoke, voice breaking a little over her name. “Do you…?”

“No. This is my first time abroad,” she answered seriously, hands folded in her lap. “The letter I received was the first I ever heard of this Mos character and he claims to have something of interest to me.”   
  
She said it with such finality that it left little room for further discussion. Aziraphale winced. A harsh lady was an experience he was all to familiar with. 

“Well!” Gabriel, sensing his opening, smacked his knees and spoke a little too loudly for the enclosed space of the carriage. “I was frankly very surprised with my invite! I did try to kill that red headed devil he sent to my chapel! Imagine! Stealing from a church!”

Aziraphale blinked...then blinked again. There was much to unpack there and he barely knew where to start. 

“You’re...a priest?” He really did try not to sound shocked. 

Gabriel simply smiled brightly. “Was! I was defrocked by fools. Ah well, I still have followers.”

A quick glance around the carriage revealed that no one quite knew what to do with this tidbit. It took quite a lot to get defrocked, after all, and his cheery attitude was one of a man discussing a football call that didn’t meet their approval. Not of a man who was on the outs with the Church. 

Aziraphale, fully forgetting that it was Newton that started this conversation, ploughed on ahead. “...a red head stole from you?”

“Tried to. It was obvious to me that he was in need of divine guidance.” He picked at an imaginary speck of dirt at his knee. “I gave it to him, though he was very resistant. I still haven’t gotten the stains out of the floor.”

Aziraphale’s mouth was dry. “Ah?...yes?” 

“Oh don’t look so shocked!” Gabriel laughed. “Sometimes we have to do harsh things to bring the light of God to the undeserving. He was VERY undeserving.” 

When? How?  _ What did that mean?  _ All these questions and more sprung to the forefront of Aziraphale’s mind only to be immediately pushed back into the recesses when the carriage gave an alarming joly and stopped. 

Their driver banged on the roof with a closed fist.

“We’re here!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“What’s the primary use of Pennyroyal?”

“Protection from evil and harmful magic,” recited Warlock boredly. “It’s most effective if kept on you.”

“What’s another that does much the same?”

Warlock mulled it over. “There’s a few, isn’t there? Uhm...Rosemary?”   


Nanny nodded approvingly. “What’s a herb you can use to improve your courage?”   
  
“Yarrow,” Warlock responded confidently, smiling proudly. Nanny had given him yarrow to keep on him when he first went to boarding school. He still had the sachet tucked away in his suitcase, though the flowers had long lost their yellow colouring. “It’s good for psychic stuff, too!”

“Eh. I’ve never had that experience,” Nanny grumbled in a tone that suggested he disapproved of that supposed use. “Name me a poisonous plant that isn’t nightshade.” 

“Hemlock, castor, white snakeroot,” Warlock rattled off with ease. “Hastur told me you ate hemlock once.”

“Did he now.”

“Is it true?” Warlock peered at him curiously. 

“...yes.”

“Why?!”

“I needed too.” Nanny stopped a moment before continuing carefully. “I wouldn’t recommend it. I still get tremors. Food doesn’t sit well.”

Warlock stared for a moment, watching his caretakers expressions. It was a difficult task with the dark glasses in the way. Nanny was much easier to read without them. 

“Hastur said your immune to poison.”

Nanny snorted. “No, no, no. Venom. I’m immune to venom.”   
  
“Isn’t...isn’t it the same?”   
  
Nanny frowned and glanced his way. For a moment Warlock could see his curious, rapt face reflected back at him in those glasses.

“Poison is ingested. Venom injected.”

Nanny made a sharp turn, shifting everything inside the Bentley. Warlock braced himself as if it were second nature. It kind of was. 

“Snakes are venomous,” Warlock noted knowingly and earned a LOOK in return. 

Nanny turned his face back to the road and sighed heavily. 

“Yeh...that they are.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Mos Estate was sweeping and isolated. Thick forest surrounded the land as far as the eye could see to the west, south, and east while a cliff that dropped sharply off into a seemingly eternally still body of sea to the north. The land was ancient and had been in the Mos family for centuries, though the estate had only come into being in the past hundred years. 

The home was a sight to behold. The lovechild of a castle and a mansion with tall ramparts, meandering hallways, hundreds of rooms that had never seen any occupancy, and all manner of strange architectural decision. All was black and gray on the outside, the brightest spots being the many stained glass windows that depicted colorful, strange scenes of creatures best left to a man’s darkest fantasies. 

It was from one of these windows, one depicting a glorious, flaming bewinged wheel,Lucien Mos watched the courtyard below. Ligur had arrived with his guests. Good. 

The distance between them was great but he knew them all by shape alone. The Wheel, Strength, The Chariot, The Hermit, The High Priestess, and The Star. All that was needed was his Fool and Magician. It would have been fantastic to have all the players but, alas, invitations were declined and ages did not allow for it.

He would make do with what he had.

An oaken staff was swept up from where it was resting on the window frame and Lucien turned from the window. 

It was time to greet his guest and welcome change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let us begin, shall we?


	4. Chapter 4

It is hard to admit when one may have made a mistake. Aziraphale struggled for many years to have the grace to acknowledge his own faults and poor decisions, of which there were too many to count. It was even harder to admit when one was in the midst of making a mistake and walk it back. It was much like journeying half way down a tunnel and seeing the lights of a train coming one’s way. One wouldn’t be able to run fast enough to escape being crushed against a cattle catcher so they would have to decide if they could squeeze to the side of the tunnel or leap aboard and ride to safety. 

Aziraphale had a feeling he was well past the entrance of the tunnel.

The estate was massive like many he had visited in life and had a unique presentation that he could appreciate. He was no fan of ‘cookie cutter’ architecture, a fact that he blamed on the fact that his families estate tended to be a bit meandering and strange, and seeing such a fantastic home in such an isolated area was thrilling. He could only imagine the kinds of collectables and secrets such a home would reveal. 

Then the butler, Hastur, opened the door and regarded them all with eyes as black as midnight shadows and hair as white as snow after a melt. He was immediately put off by the man, offended in a way that was unheard of for him. The man looked fine aside from these abnormalities but there was just an unplaceable _ something _ about him that left Aziraphale’s skin crawling. 

The man spoke little and, when he did, it was in sneers and grumbles. He led each of them to their rooms, never offering to help with their luggage, and only just barely throwing the doors open for them only to snap them closed soon as they were sorted away. 

Aziraphale had the misfortune of being the last one guided to their room and was, therefore, alone with the unpleasant character. 

Still, Aziraphale had good breeding. He knew from experience that servants were often extensions of a host’s family and should be treated with not only respect but friendliness. He smiled politely as he was guided through winding, yellow wallpapered corridors and attempted to strike up a conversation. “This is quite the estate! You must have your work cut out for you here.”

Hastur looked over his shoulder at him with coal black eyes. “...Ligur and Beelzebub help. Sometimes Dagon.”  
  
Those were some names, alright. He knew he shouldn’t judge, as he’d given himself a rather atypical name, but hearing that there was someone named _ Beelzebub _ just trotting about like it was a normal thing was a bit off putting. 

“Only four of you?” He questioned curiously. The estate was massive and maze-like. He wasn’t sure he would be able to find his way back to the front door, let alone the rooms of his fellow guests, if tasked. A bit of a fire hazard, really. 

“Well.” Hastur slowed his step and looked back again, his eyes glinting in the low light of the windowless hall. He smiled with crooked teeth, the split of his mouth seeming almost too wide for the thin face. “The Crowley family used to serve here...but now there’s only one.”

A nauseating feeling stirred in the pit of his stomach, that smile sickening him in a way that he couldn’t justify. “Ah...uhm...which one?”

In response Hastur threw open a door and gave a distinctly mocking bow, waving him inside. 

Aziraphale sighed and entered the room, the unnerved feeling spreading through his veins like an icy slush. Either he was in the presence of the worst butler that has ever butled or...or this was no typical servant. Maybe not even a servant at all. 

The realization was taking hold when Hastur decided to forego his normal routine of slamming the door shut as soon as the guest was secure. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, observing him a moment longer, hand hovering on golden door knob. “...he’s not going to be happy you’re here.”

“Who won’t?” Aziraphale asked but...but some part of him already knew who he meant. 

“Crowley. Anthony Crowley.” His head tilted to the other side, getting another angle on him. “He’s going to panic. Do something stupid.” 

The beastly man laughed and the slush in Aziraphales veins solidfied. He took an involuntary step backwards, his back connecting with some piece of furniture or decor. 

“Good. Maybe he’ll forget about the boy then.” The door was slammed shut, muffling the man's continued laughter as they walked away. 

Aziraphale blinked, looking about his perfectly fine room. A four poster bed, the wardrobe he bumped against, a dressing table, a roaring fireplace, and a singular stained glass window bearing a rather lovely depiction of a white winged star. 

He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, trying to will his blood to start flowing again. He hugged himself, rubbing at his arms to be rid of the chill he found clinging to him in spite of the fire. His mind sluggishly worked through the increasingly bizarre circumstances he was finding himself in. Finally, all his thoughts ground to a halt as a new puzzle was presented to him.

Boy?

Why would they want Crowley to forget the birthday boy?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nanny was smoking in the Bentley. This was a violation of his own rules, his own desire to see the upholstery undamaged and scent free. Nanny always said that the Bentley was his ‘happy place’ and was to be as free of outside scents as possible. This was unprecedented. 

Warlock was openly staring, watching as Nanny inhaled, held, then exhaled smoke only to have the gray, sinuous whisps be stolen away through the open window. Nanny’s hand was trembling as he knocked the ash from the tip of his cigarette out through the same window. 

Finally, Nanny spoke. 

“Master Warlock.” The boy sat up straighter upon hearing the serious note in his voice. This was what he was waiting for. Nanny was about to talk to him like he was an equal, like he was more than just some daft child. He knew that something more than a visit home was afoot, knew that Nanny was much more high strung than normal. 

The lines on Nanny’s face softened to something more bereaved. “Warlock….” No ‘Master’ this time. The lack of honorific chilled him. “What if we went to London? Or Paris? Or Moscow?”

Warlock blinked, confused. “Right now?”  
  
“Yeh! Anywhere you want to go, kid!” Nanny smiled in that way he did when he was stressed and trying to hide it. “We’ll bail. You’re pops hasn’t invited any kids to this birthday soiree. Just...just boring old folk he finds interesting. Ask Nanny to take you away and we’ll go.”   
  
Warlock shifted in his seat. A trip sounded nice...and a trip with Nanny! He had spent many nights reading Kipling, Stevenson, and Twain imagining his own adventures. He had spent just as many nights pouring over Nanny’s postcards and letters, finding the locations on the return addresses from the great big atlas he stole from the school’s library, and imagining going on such a journey at Nanny’s side. 

Yet...yet father planned for him to be home. Father was awful when angry. He had never once struck Warlock when angry but...but Nanny always came back pale and shaky. He was responsible for Warlock so anything misbehavior was...was….

“Anywhere, Warlock.” Nanny spoke again, almost frantically. His smile was gone. He was _ pleading _ , Warlock realized. Nanny had never begged for _ anything _ from father, even when he was hurting terribly. He always bore punishment with a brave face. “Doesn’t matter where. Anywhere you want to go.” 

Warlock took a breath.

Father was inescapable...even for Nanny. 

He exhaled. 

“It’s just a party, Nanny,” he said with what he hoped was an echo of the brave, reassuring smile Nanny often aimed his way. He reached out and pat Nanny’s thin hand where it clenched the steering wheel. “It’ll be fine.”

Nanny’s mouth moved uselessly, no noise coming out except for a noise that might have been an attempt at a reprimand. He finally closed it and swallowed. 

He pitched his cigarette angrily out the window.

“...plan B then.” He grumbled under his breath. “Do you trust me, kid?”

Warlock nodded firmly. “More than anyone.” More than his own father. At least he knew Nanny loved him unconditionally. Father...not so much. 

“Alright. Okay. Listen close, then, because I can’t tell you everything just yet...but I have a few things I need you to do and you need to do them to the letter, alright?” He slammed the accelerator, picking up speed to ease his own anxiety. 

Warlock trained his eyes on his caretakers face. 

“Anything you say, Nanny.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short bit before we REALLY start getting into it.


	5. Chapter 5

The longer Aziraphale looked at the stained glass window in his room the more he disliked it. The details were what drove him. The star was entrancing and the wings attached were strong looking. Yet there were also falling feathers in the green sky depicted, all bent at disconcerting angles. His stomach twisted and churned the longer he looked, unpleasant memories stirring to the surface of his mind.

His mother’s aviary. The day she died. All the doves….

He shook his head in a vain attempt at ridding himself of the distressing thought and turned his back to the window. Best change out of his travel clothes and ready himself to greet his host. Surely there would be a supper? He decided to change into his white dinner jacket and matching bow tie, just in case.

...Crowley would remember him, right? That awful butler seemed to think he would and Master Mos had mentioned in his letter that it was Crowley that suggested him to participate in this weekend but that came as little reassurance. Eleven years was a long time.

Aziraphale appraised himself in the mirror, tugging at the hem of jacket fretfully. He was softer than back when they first met. He had become quite the epicure and it showed in ways that he, personally, had never found distasteful but others might. He liked to think he carried the extra plumpness well but, well, doubt was a hell of a thing. 

He didn’t fist fight anymore, either. Back then he had been newly cut loose from his old life and escaping the grief that haunted him. He had been raised proper and pompous. Pugilism, it turned out, was a fantastic way to get out aggression, distance himself from the past, and make an odd assortment of friends. 

When his shop finally opened he gave it up. One couldn’t expect to be invited into people’s homes to look at their precious collection when they were sporting a split lip, after all.

It had been exercise, though, and it certainly helped him look a tad more strapping than he currently did. He supposed that was just the nature of life and change.

Crowley had probably changed as well. 

For example, he may not find bumbling, naive, morons with a penchant for leaping before they looked as attractive as he had a decade ago. 

With a groan he flopped back onto the bed, caring not a stitch for the wrinkles he was surely inflicting on his clothing, and stared up at the ceiling. 

All signs pointed at this whole affair being something other than what was advertised. Perhaps not nefarious but at least shady. There was a possibility of some unpleasantness to come.

Yet he was fretting over a man as if he were the heroine in an Austen novel. 

Such nonsense.

He really was an idiot. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Warlocks hands shook as he changed his clothing. Beelzebub had offered her assistance but he was eleven in a day, he reasoned. He could dress himself for dinner. She had accepted this answer with a grumble and a curt nod, not daring to argue with him. Independence was a valuable thing, after all. 

Hastur had taken Nanny away as soon as they arrived. Father wanted to see him, he said. What Father wanted he got.

Honestly, Warlock could not fathom how Nanny put up with it. He had only lived full time on the estate for a few years and in all that time he had only ever found it unsettling. There were too many shadows, all of which seemed to stretch out hungrily to little boys. Strange sounds were always left in the wake of Nanny’s lullaby’s, haunting his dreams and calling to him.

Nanny had been born on the estate. His parents served his Family faithfully. They served Father faithfully. 

Warlock knew frightful few details about Nanny’s childhood and even the ones he knew came from Hastur or Beelzebub, not Nanny himself. Such tales were always told in whispers, not fearfully, but with a morbid, astounded glee that fascinated Warlock as much as they horrified him. 

Hastur said Nanny tried to kill himself as a young teenager. Tried many times, even. Then, when such methods didn’t “take” he ran away from home, lied about his age, and went to fight in the Great War. Hastur said that Nanny’s mother died of heartbreak. 

Hastur said Father had been furious.

Hastur delighted in such tales. He loved all things dark and twisted but he loved such things even more when Nanny was involved. He didn’t like Nanny. Warlock was never able to find out why. 

Beelzebubs stories tended to be more straightforward. Always told with an air of dispassion, as if they found such things boring. It was from her Warlock learned that Nanny vanished when he was four years old. One minute he’d been following his mother around, the next he was gone. They razed the estate searching for him, leaving no corner unsearched. There were wolves in the woods, they all knew. Ligur, Father, and Nanny’s father had taken rifles into the thick forest but found no trace of beast or boy. 

A week passed. People mourned.

Then Nanny simply...appeared at the cliffside. Clean as the day he vanished, plump and healthy. He had a snake tattoo, red and raw, on his temple and a wound in his shoulder. Two large, deep, bloodless punctures that had less in common with the stabbing of a knife and more in common with the bite of some fanged beast. They found him mute and staring blankly off the edge of the cliff and the wide, bleak horizon. 

He didn’t speak after that. Didn’t tell anyone what had happened or where he had gone. 

After that Father had taken Nanny on as a ward. He lived in the house, was schooled, trained….

Then disowned as an inheritor after he ran away. 

Warlock didn’t know when he came into things. He knew precious little of his own mother and none of the stories ever mentioned Father being married. He only knew her name to be Lily and that her and Nanny had been good friends. Nanny had even been there the night his mother died.

The night he was born.

A hard knock at his door shook him from his meandering thoughts and his automatic dressing. 

“Supper is soon. The guests are being summoned.” Beelzebub’s clipped tones suggested some source of anxiety, even through the thick wood of the door. He didn’t dwell on it. There was a lot to be anxious about in this place. “I’m to take you.”

“Just a moment!” Warlock called as he hastily tied his tie. “Just putting my shoes on!” 

This was a lie. His shoes were already firmly buckled on his feet. No, he had one last thing to do.

Glancing furtively at the door he crept to the opposite side of the room, to the giant stained glass window that bore the imagery of a man walking jauntily along, a sack slung over his shoulder. Warlock rather liked the image as it was colourful and playful in a way most things on the estate were. 

It also had a loose brick at the base where he kept secret things. It was from this hidden cubby he withdrew a small, silver medallion that Nanny had given him years ago. He had made him promise to keep it safe and never show it to anyone so into the hiding place it had went. 

He placed the object carefully in his breast pocket before replacing the rock and dashing back to the door. Beelzebub could lose her patience at any moment and she tended to be a lot more keen than Hastur. 

He opened the door wide and smiled sweetly up at a scowling, pinched face. “Ready!” He declared with his brightest grin. In fact, he may have overdid it if Beelzebub peering around him suspiciously was anything to go by. 

“...are you alright, young master?” She asked after a moment, side stepping him to draw his door closed with a final, careful glance at the room. 

“Fine!” He answered brightly. Too brightly. He took a breath and told himself firmly to calm. “Just...nervous about the party. About seeing father.” 

“Hm.” Beelzebub looked him over, frowning all the while, before reaching to fix his tie with steady, deft fingers. “I don’t blame you.”   
  
Warlock fought to wrangle his expression to something neutral. It was rare for Beelzebub to say...anything, really. To him specifically. She often seemed to look anywhere but him when they were in the same room, yet she was looking at him now with a shrewdness she only laid upon puzzles. He only ever got stories from her when Nanny had to go away and he was being a brat. This...this was new. 

Beelzebub chuckled, though she didn’t smile. “What has ‘Nanny’ told you to do, I wonder? Do you even know what’s happening?” She tilted her head to the left, then the right as she considered him. Something in her eternal frown softened. “...let us go, young master. We don’t wish to upset the Master.”

Warlock nodded numbly, unsure what to make of this foreign behavior.   
  
“Yes. Let’s-let’s go.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Patience was not one of Anathemas strongest characteristics. One would think a woman who’s whole life was dedicated to prophecy and the future would have the patience of a saint and Anathema could be patient when waiting for such things. She had to be. It was not like she could rush the future.

However, she had no prophecies regarding this invitation. All she had was a rather bossy dream and a sense of deep, old magic circling this estate like a waiting hurricane. 

She also had not been told she  _ must _ stay in her room until summoned for supper. The strange, black eyed butler had merely implied someone would retrieve her. He said nothing about her finding her own way to the parlour or dining room if she were so inclined.

If she got lost along the way, we’ll, who would blame her?

Holding the skirts of her rich, green dress aloft , Anathema crept through the winding, dark halls of the Mos Estate. The portraits were all of a strange, dark oil color nature with subjects that looked most human and somewhat not. The sculptures and depicted creatures she couldn’t begin to identify. They were certainly not featured in any ancient tome or book of shadows that she had ever studied. 

It was down one particularly dark hallway she heard the noise. At first she thought it to be the ancient plumbing rattling in the walls, hissing the pipes struggled into pump water throughout the vast home. Yet as she listened she swore she could hear warped snatched of words. She paused in the dark, straining her ears.

_“...night...starts…-ley? Offer more. Will-?”_

Another step into the shadows. Was there a door hidden here? It seemed this seething voice was all around her. Not in the walls, she determined as she pressed closer. The air itself seemed to contain this soothing, yet urgent voice. 

It was getting louder. Closer. 

_“-more to give. Your body. Give me your spine, you hips, your ribs. That will protect him. Your legs, your arms, your heart. Your soul! All of it! All of you! A trade! You’ve a foot in the grave anyways. Such a noble sacrifice-”_

The voice stopped suddenly, almost violently. Anathema stood, still as the statues around her, holding her breath. 

The silence was shattered when a hand touched her shoulder and she screamed out. She turned in a whirl of skirts, looking up with wild eyes. 

A man stood there. Red hair, tall, thin, dressed impeccably in a black suit accompanied with a red tie, and wearing sunglasses despite the darkness that surrounded them. He stepped back, holding his hands up peaceably. “Sorry, sorry!” He apologized, looking genuinely repentant for the scare he had given her. “You’re a bit far off from the rest, Miss.”

Anathema quickly schooled her expression, smoothing the lines along her dress to conceal the shaking of her hands. “Oh! I’m so sorry. I must have gotten turned around.”  


The redhead seemed to consider her from behind those dark glasses, a ghost of his smile lining his thin lips. “...that happens around here. Best stick close to where there’s light. I’m sure you’ll see more of this place than you ever wanted before the weekend is over.”

For a moment she considered opening her inner eye to read his aura. That would tell her for sure if this man was a threat or as amiable as he presented. Yet...she had a dreadful feeling that she shouldn’t attempt to read him. It took a moment for her to realize that this feeling came from him. A silent warning that rang as loud as any claxon. 

She took a deep, trembling breath while attempting to look like she was not doing that.

“Would...would you take me back?” She asked for lack of any other exit to the conversation, then offered him her arm.

He took it without hesitation. “My pleasure, Miss.” A look was not so subtly cast back into the dark. “Why did you choose this spot to lurk, anyways?”   
  
“I thought I heard a voice,” she answered truthfully, watching him in profile as she said it.

He seemed to frown. “...a clear one?”

“Yes?”   
  
“...echoes from elsewhere, no doubt.” He lied with ease while making it apparent that he was, indeed, lying. “You should ignore it. People will think you’re nuts if you talk about hearing voices. Take my word on that.”   
  
“And what’s your word worth Mister…?”   
  
“Crowley.” He didn’t offer a first name. “Not much to the wrong people, a lot to the right.”

A strange response. “...which am I, Mister Crowley?” She asked curiously, feeling strangely at ease around him. 

“A witch.” He looked to her with a knowing smirk, guiding her back into the lighted halls. He released her arm as soon as they could easily be seen. Then he continued, just ahead of her, speaking as he went.

“And witches, in my experience, are worth having in your corner.” 


	6. Chapter 6

Pre Dinner drinks were and continue to be a custom in many parts of the world. It was no different on the Mos Estate where a group of relative strangers found themselves ushered into a rather lavishly decorated , round room that made up the parlour. Golds and rich, jewel toned fabrics adorned every every surface. The shelves that lined the walls were lined with all sorts of fantastic oddity. A tall, glossy black fireplace roared in the space. All this was capped off by a domed ceiling that was made purely from stained glass, the details too hard to make out in the dimming light.

Aziraphale wasted little time in taking an airing glass of red wine before crossing to gaze at the curiosities presented. Strange, greening plaques of stone covered in an even stranger hieroglyphic type language caught his eye. He was not familiar with the pictographs on display yet he found himself making a valiant effort to discern their meaning as he idly sipped at his wine, dutifully ignored the conversations going on among the other guests.

“They’re from space,” a young voice commented boredly, startling him. A dark haired, dull eyed boy was at his side, looking at the same tablets with the same air as one might look at an interesting patch of grass. 

Aziraphale looked down at the child dubiously. “...space?” He questioned faintly, unsure if he had heard correctly. 

The boy nodded once, firmly. “Yep. The Old Ones came from the very edge of the universe, you know. Where there’s no light or sound. This is their edict.”

An amused smile began to creep along the lines of his mouth. He raised his glass to his lips to hide it. It was a shame to discourage a child from their imaginings, he felt, and he refused to be the one responsible for ruining such a harmless, yet interesting tale. “What does it say?”

The boy glanced up at him curiously, then looked back to the tablets. “Dunno. I’m just a kid. Father knows, though.” 

It wasn’t the response he was expecting. Surely the boy was having him on. “Who is your father, then?”

“Lucien Mos.” The boy shrugged heavily, as if some hidden weight was pressed down upon him at the mere mention of his father. Aziraphale felt a distinct pang of sympathy. He was intimately familiar with that kind of resigned shrug. He used to have great need of it at the parties his mother hosted or dragged him to. 

“That mean you must be the birthday boy!” Aziraphale dredged up his brightest, most affectionate smile. “Warlock, yes?”

Warlock appeared taken aback for a moment before he returned his smile with a faint, shy smile of his own. “Yes. That’s me. What’s your name?”

“Aziraphale.” He gave an exaggerated bow, hand over breast and head tipped low. It was a silly gesture but it found its mark: the boy laughed. 

Then he studied him with a shrewdness that Aziraphale was not accustomed to seeing in children. “I know that name.”

Once again, Aziraphale found himself caught off guard by the child. “Oh? Well, it is biblical-”

“Oh. I’ve never read a bible,” the boy hummed, looking him over from bottom to top. “My Nanny mentioned the name before.”   
  
“Your Nanny?” His curiosity was piqued. He couldn’t recall knowing anyone that would fit the description of a nanny. Most of his acquaintances were of the type that personally didn’t care for children or were not trusted with children due to some sense of archaic bigotry. Even among his few female friends he could not recall any that would care for another's child. 

Warlock winced in a manner that suggested he had misspoken and looked about, as if afraid he would be disciplined for his error. “I mean...well...it’s a joke? Or...or an endearment! Um. There! That’s who I meant!”

The boy pointed to the archway leading into the parlour and Aziraphale followed the motion.

His heart stopped in his chest. 

The man was conversing with Miss Device in hushed tones as he entered, a cordial smile planted on his face. The dark glasses were a new addition, as was the shorter hair, but everything else about him was just as Aziraphale remembered. Lean, tall, red headed, face marred by a small, black tattoo. There were some lines of age about that sharp angled face but that was to be expected. 

He didn’t see Aziraphale right away. He was intent on Miss Device as she walked away to join the others near the grand fireplace, his smile fading to nothing as soon as he believed there were no eyes on him. He watched the small gathering for a moment, brows knit in a way that Aziraphale knew to be a tell of him being perplexed. 

The gaze shifted. Aziraphale could only stand like a deer caught in the headlights as that beautiful face turned his way. 

Even with the dark glasses acting as a barrier he could tell when their eyes met. It was like a physical arc or electricity channeling between them. Fine, red eye brows arched skywards in surprise. Perfect lips curved into a dreamy, overjoyed smiled that he found himself answering with one of his own-

Then Crowley’s expression crumpled. Aziraphale mirrored this change with a confused, crestfallen look of his own as he watched the colour drain from the other mans face. 

What delight had briefly been present morphed into horror.

Crowley hadn’t expected him here, he finally realized. He was never meant to be here.

He was Crowley’s secret.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
It was not anywhere close to closing time when Crowley stumbled from the pub, yet he was sloshed in a way he had never allowed himself to be. Lily had insisted he take a night to enjoy himself, saying the nuns would take care of her and that he should really get out more. If he was going to live separate from Master Mos he would need to learn how to interact with others, right?

He had told her that he was in the military, he knew how to interact with people outside of the estate but she merely laughed. “That’s not what I mean,” she murmured with a knowing smile.

So he had found the seediest pub in all of London and gotten drunk off his arse. It probably wasn’t what she had in mind but it was a way to pass the time until he went back to check on her the next morning. She would see him all rumpled and would assume the best (or worst) of his night. He was a master of deception, afterall. 

He decided he could still stand to be much drunker but nicotine was calling to him and he wanted a moment to gather himself before reentering the din. There were some underground boxing matches happening in the basement and, while they held no particular interest to him, it made the whole pub a bit noisier than he preferred. 

As he patted down his jacket pockets he became dimly aware of an exchange happening just a little ways down. A taxi was pulled up to the side of the road and three people were standing outside of it. Two of African descent, one of which was heavily pregnant, and a man dressed in white. 

“I insist!” The man in white was saying, voice chipper and proper, as he held the back door open for the couple. “I’ll simply call for another.”

The cabby shouted something rude as the woman began sliding into the car. The man in white rounded, sticking his head through the passenger side window and exchanged muffled, hard words with the man before producing a bill fold and shoving cash the drivers way. 

Crowley chuckled, lighting his cigarette even though he had no lighter or matches. As a whole, he believed people to be very morally gray but, in his upbringing, he had the misfortune to see more dark gray and black in folk. It was refreshing to see something on the lighter side. It did his heart good. 

A fat, bitterly cold raindrop falling squarely on the crown of his head startled him. Shit. He would pick now to go out for a smoke. He stubbornly kept puffing away as more drops began to sprinkle about him, determined to have his fix before diving back into the pub. The sprinkling was turning into a shower when, without warning, there was  _ FWOOSH _ and the rain was obstructed. 

Above him was a pristine, white umbrella. To his right was the man in white, smiling at him as he took a drag from a cigarette of his own. 

From a distance Crowley hadn’t been able to appreciate this figure and that was a shame for what a man stood at his side. Pale blond to the point of being nearly downy white. Blue, sparkling eyes. A smile that could slay a creature from the deepest pit. He was too glorious to look at directly yet all Crowley  _ could _ do was stare at him dumbly, cigarette dangling from his agape mouth. 

“I don’t think it was calling for showers tonight,” the man observed, literally making small talk about the weather. As he spoke Crowley could smell the whiskey on his breath mingling with the scent of ignited tobacco. “That’s England for you, I suppose.” 

“Mhm,” Crowley nodded, struggling with an intelligent response. What could he say when there was an  _ angel _ standing next to him? Nothing that would make him appealing to such a divine looking man, he was sure. 

That pretty smile flickered, some doubt entering those blue eyes. “Oh. Am I intruding on a private moment? I’m quite sorry. You looked like you were getting soaked, you see-”

“S’fine,” Crowley managed, voice pitched a bit higher than usual. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Just...caught me off guard. That’s all.”   


A relieved smile spread across the man’s face. “Oh, good. I’d hate to be a bother.”   
  
“Don’t worry about it,” Crowley ressured with a small smile. “There’s no bother in doing something nice. Like that taxi. You don’t seem bothered by giving up your ride.”   
  
The man sniffed indignantly. “I wasn’t ready to go yet anyways. I saw through the window that they kept getting passed by so I stepped in.”   
  
Crowley quirked an eyebrow. “You stopped a cab for them?”   
  
“She was expecting, did you not see?” He frowned, very nearly pouted. Crowley’s heart skipped a precarious beat. “They were getting passed by simply because of petty racism. It’s the Twenties! Humans, as a species, should be ashamed of themselves for such behaviors!”

Warm. The rain was cold but Crowley felt warm. “I agree.” He manage to not choke on the sudden adoration that was tightening in his chest. 

The man smiled even brighter. “I’m relieved to hear it.”

They stood in silence for a few minutes, their cigarettes dwindling to nothing as the rain began to pound harder down on them. Finally, Crowley was forced to toss the butt into a puddle where it hissed and expired. The man in white followed suit. 

They stood a moment longer. 

“Can I buy you a drink…?” The question was put forth so cautiously that Crowley at once knew that this wasn’t the type of drink one would buy for a new friend. The mans figure had tightened a bit, as if preparing to defend himself from a physical rebuff. As if that had been something that happened in the past when a similar question was posed. 

Crowley couldn’t help but to admire the bravery in the gesture.

He also couldn’t help the fluttery, heated feeling that seemed to spread from his chest to every inch of his being. 

“I’d like that,” he murmured honestly, flashing the man a crooked grin. “You got a name?”

“Ez-” The man stopped, as if remembering something, then corrected himself. “Aziraphale.”   
  
A fake name. An angels name.

How fitting. 

Crolwey’s grin broadened. “Crowley.” He bowed playfully, making a bit of a show of himself. “Lead the way, angel.”

The startled, delighted laugh that followed the gesture would echo in his waking thoughts for years to come. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Crowley’s blood had frozen in veins.

Aziraphale was here.

_His angel was here. _

Oh, he was as gorgeous as ever. Softer, yes, but still as beautiful as the sunrise. His heart leapt at the sight of him. For over ten years he wanted nothing more than to see him again, to swoop in and beg for his forgiveness, for his love. 

His joy was quickly dampened as cold, hard reality to set in. 

He hadn’t told anyone but Warlock about Aziraphale. He was too precious to risk. He came from a completely different world from the one Crowley came from.

Yet he was here.

He was here on _this_ weekend of all weekends. 

Crowley’s heart began to hammer in his chest. There was the taste of bile at the back of his throat as panic began to grip him. There were no coincidences. If Aziraphale was here that meant they knew.

It meant that Aziraphale was one of those that the Master was looking for. 

It meant that Crowley had unwittingly sealed his fate. 

He took a step forward, dread filling him up. He’d take Warlock and Aziraphale out of this place before it started. He had to! No matter what happened to himself he’d-

It was too late.

“Greetings, honored guest!” A welcoming, theatrical voice bellowed from the archway. 

Master Mos was here.


	7. Chapter 7

Their host was handsome in a way that Aziraphale associated with stage or cinema actors. Blond, tall, thin, impeccably dressed in all black, and eyes so blue they were reminiscent of the underside of an iceberg. They were just as chilly as well fore, even as he offered a tight lipped smile to them all, Aziraphale felt goosebumps surge forth on his arms when that icy gaze was laid upon him.

Master Mos wasted little time in sweeping into the room, heading first to the cluster of guests that sat around the fireplace. “I am so glad to see you have all made yourselves comfortable. I trust the wine is to tastes?”

It was Shadwell who found his tongue first...or perhaps the wine had found it for him. He was flushed across the cheeks, narrow eyes squinting more than usual, as he lifted his glass to their host. “Aye sir! It’s a fine bit’o drink to be sure!”   
  
Piercing eyes honed in on the older man. “I am glad to hear it, Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell. ‘Tis so good to see that you could make it. I have quite the collection of artifacts from your predecessors but your grandness is something I needed to witness in person!”   
  
Shadwell straightened under the attention, proud and dignified in a way he had not seen fit to present himself as until that moment. “Is that right, sir? Here’s hopin’ that I live up to yer lofty expectations!”   
  
“Oh, I have no doubt you will.” Master Mos turned his attention next to the odd man out: Newton Pulsifer. “Newton, is it? I was so sorry to hear your could not make it. I have acquired quite the unusual machine that could have used his talents.”   
  
The young man stammered, pushing up his glass with an unsteady hand. “H-he sends his regards, sir. Uhm, I-I was trained by him so I might be able to…?”   
  
Mos clapped his hands and let out a strangely mirthless laugh. “I hope you will be able to! It would be a shame if you aren’t!” Newton began to ask something else but the Masters attention had already moved on. “Miss Device,” he purred, bowing, offering her his hand. “I have heard much about your families arcane talents but none of my people saw fit to inform me of your great beauty.”

Anathema took the hand and suffered a kiss placed upon her knuckles. “Then your servants know that beauty is needless when it comes to magic and prophecy.”

This cool response earned her an equally cool smile. “How right you are. I have quite enjoyed your ancestors book. It has made my daily life much more interesting.”   
  
“I suspect it would,” the young woman responded in clipped tones. “There was only one copy in existence, sir. I’m very interested in knowing how you came into yours.”   
  
“All in good time, Miss Device, all in good time.” He waved her off and turned next to Madame Tracey. Oh, how Aziraphale disliked the feral smile he gave his old friend! It spoke of ill intention. 

“Madame Tracey! I am so happy to see you were able to make the trip! I was worried the spirits you converse with would warn you off.” Master Mos laughed softly and good naturedly, yet it made the skin crawl unpleasantly. 

Madame Tracey smiled kindly with true, unending warmth. “They did, actually. However, I go where I feel my services are most needed. You must need me greatly, Master Mos. The spirits have yet to quiet since I arrived.”

For the first time that chilly smile faded away. “Quite.” He held her gaze for a long moment and she responded by continuing to smile, almost knowingly.

Almost threateningly. 

Master Mos finally tore his eyes from her and turned to Gabriel. “Father, how good of you to come! I was most excited to hear you made the trip!” He spread his arms as he declared this and, for a moment, Aziraphale believed he actually had been excited. That Gaabriel’s presence was thrilling to the master of the house. 

Gabriel, wine free and eternally smiling, bowed his head slightly in courteous acknowledgment. “I’m no longer a Father. Pastor will do or just Gabriel. I couldn’t decline such an invitation. Especially when one of your people has stolen from me.”   
  
Gabriels strange eyes wandered from master to servant. Aziraphale followed the path of his gaze and found it settled squarely upon Crowley. The redhead was stood straighter than he had ever seen him, stiff as a board, a slight tremble in his graceful fingers.

“Oh dear, do forgive him. He did it for me. You will find there is very little Crowley will not do if I ask him.” This gained a flinch from the man in question.

A pang of anger swept over Aziraphale to see it. His boundless imagination wasted little time in conjuring a vile backstory for Mos and Crowley, one in which the object of his eternal affections was spellbound by a heartless master, unable to break away or exercise any will of his own. In his story Master Mos would whisper in Crowley’s ear, threaten not him but the love of his life-

It was ridiculous. A fantasy. Aziraphale felt ashamed for even thinking up such nonsense.

No one could control another. Crowley left all those years ago because he needed to leave.

Or wanted to. 

So wrapped up in his daydreams was he that Aziraphale found himself quite startled when he looked away from Crowley to find the master of the house standing frighteningly close to him. A knowing, sharp smile pulled at thin lips, glacial eyes peering down at him with what Aziraphale could only call malicious glee. “Mister Aziraphale, did you see something you liked?”   
  
“Uhm-” Aziraphale stammered, feeling wrong footed. His tongue was leaden in his mouth. He could only watch silently as the master turned his face to Crowley, his smile sharpening further as he looked over his servant, before returning his gaze to Aziraphale. 

“Is my Crowley not lovely?” He murmured, leaning in closer. “Even as a boy he was. So bright as well! He has been very hard to keep a good grip on. Even harder in recent years...but he has stayed and served well, despite his many faults.” 

The master moved to place a hand on Warlocks shoulders, unconcerned when the boy flinched away. “He has been my only sons caretaker. I could not have asked for a better person to care for my dear Warlock after my wife passed on. Crowley changed his nappies, was up in the night to feed him, tutored and played with him. Why, he’s almost just as much your son as he is mine, is he not? Crowley?” 

The room was mesmerized by this strange exchange, as if all were holding their breaths. Crowley faced his master, considering him, before bowing his head subserviently. “I merely did as I was told, master. He’s yours through and through.” 

The room breathed. This answer seemed to satisfy Master Mos as he nodded curtly. Unfortunately, that meant his attention returned to Aziraphale. 

“You will sit together at dinner, yes?” He asked curiously. “I would hate to see The Lovers parted.”   
  
Crowley made a noise in his throat, something like a terrified whimper. Aziraphale pained to hear it.

“Well, we...have some things to catch up on,” he said carefully, confused about the game that was being played. Crowley hadn’t expected to see him here. Crowley was terrified to find him here. At first blush it would seem that he had hidden Aziraphale out of shame but now….

Now Aziraphale felt sure it was for safety. 

He couldn’t help but to surmise that his presence had put his former lover at quite the disadvantage in some scheme he had no understanding of.

Well, that just meant he’d have to seek understanding, didn’t it? Whatever trouble Crowley was in, he’d put an end to it. 

"Thank you for your infinite understanding, sir." He smiled more confidently and secretly delighted as Master Mos took a half step back, baffled by this sudden change in disposition.

“So, you mentioned dinner?” He chirped and turned to leave the room and, if he brushed the equally stunned red head's hand on his way out, well....

Who was to say he hadn't meant to?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter for being patient as I get this going. :P


	8. Chapter 8

Once, Crowley went with Aziraphale to his tailors. 

They had known each other for just over a week and, while all signs pointed to them both feeling the same thing, neither of them had taken a leap yet, be it verbally or physically. Crowley was out of his element when it came to affairs of the heart. Place him in a dank, dark place to face down shadows and he would do so with aplomb. Put a pair of wire snips in his hand, tell him to crawl on his belly through muddy trenches to snip barbed wire and he’d do it with a smirk. Put a gorgeous man at his side and task him with bearing his heart?

No. He couldn’t. His bravery took a nose dive into non-existence. 

Thankfully, Aziraphale had seemed more than happy to be brave in his stead.

The tailor was a rather understanding fellow. He must have been to put up with Aziraphale’s peacocking in front of the collection of mirrors, giving Crowley a view of all his best angles at once, while the poor old sod tried to take his measurements. The only time the old man glared at them was when Aziraphale smiled in a bed room eyed kind of way that stole Crowley’s breath away. 

Flirting in front of an old tailor was one thing, though. Linking their arms when they were finished up and walking down a busy street like it was just something two grown men  _ did _ was quite the other. A few decades before, perhaps they'd have gotten away with it. Crowley had read that it was common etiquette back then. Now, however?  _ Times had changed.  _

Yet Aziraphale walked proudly with him as if he were taking a proper lady out for a stroll. It drew dark looks. Crowley was painfully aware of it. 

_ “You’re gonna get us fuckin’ glassed,” _ he fought back a hiss as he whispered to him. He gave a yank, trying to detangle from him, but Aziraphale had kept a firm hold. 

_ “Let them try. Let them arrest me if they dare.” _ Aziraphale turned his head, meeting Crowley’s astounded expression fearlessly, and smiled so brightly that the sun was jealous.  _ “Don’t worry, my dear. I’ll protect you.” _   
  
His heart had done something complicated and utterly alien, warming him in ways that made the  _ Thing _ that lived inside him squirm in disgust and his soul sing with joy. No one had offered to protect Crowley before. He was usually the one doing the protecting, for better or worse.

Apparently, it was a vow that Aziraphale had taken to heart, Crowley realized as his eyes darted from the stunned look on Master Mos’ face to Aziraphale’s retreating back as the latter aimed to search out the dining room. He followed, before his Master command him otherwise, catching up to the stubbornly cheerful man with long, easy strides. 

“Assssziraphale!” He did hiss now. He’d lost the ability to stop it when stressed some years ago, after he-

Well. He didn’t need to dwell on it at the moment. 

Aziraphale kept up a steady pace until they were in the hall, some distance from the entrance to the parlour. Only then did he slow and finally face Crowley. 

“Is it too late to properly say hello?” Aziraphale asked mildly, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. 

“Um-” Crowley stammered, trying to put his thoughts in order, all warnings and lectures momentarily forgotten the moment those blue eyes he had been dreaming about focused on him.

“I suppose it is,” Aziraphale mused, humming in thought. “This is a  _ dreadful _ party, by the way. Rather dour, don’t you think? Much too sinister.”

“Sssinissster. You got that right,” he murmured, still staring at the blond from beyond dark glasses. He didn’t miss the questioning look in response to his pronounced sibilance and fought harder to wrangle it. He couldn’t know.  _ He could never know.  _

“...you’re in trouble,” Aziraphale stated lowly, smile finally fading from mouth and eyes, replaced by concern. “I thought you’d just left me but- _ oh darling! _ Have you been enslaved? Blackmailed?” 

The truth was much more complex yet Crowley didn’t know where to begin. This was a conversation he was not prepared for. Not with Aziraphale. Aziraphale didn’t belong here. He  _ couldn’t _ belong here. He didn’t fit among witches, witch finders, and corrupted priests! He-he was-was-was-!

“Aziraphale,” Crowley forced his voice to remain steady. Human, despite the  _ Thing _ wanting it to be something else. “There’s a passage just past the loo on this floor, hidden behind a unicorn tapestry. Go there right now, before anyone thinks to question it, and follow it out. It’ll take you to an alcove out in the courtyard. If you stick to the road and duck if you hear Ligur’s carriage you’ll-”   
  


“Nonsense.” Crowley ground to a halt, cut off by two syllables as if a knife had been plunged into his back. 

“N-nonsssenssse?” He literally hissed, stepping closer to the other man, intending to intimidate him, but only succeeding in earning a mild, calm glare of disapproval. “You have no idea what all thissss meansss! You don’t belong here!”   
  
“I received an invitation,” Aziraphale informed him stuffily. “I was led to believe you wanted me here. Don’t worry. I quickly figured out this wasn’t you reaching out.”   
  
There was hurt in those words, one that was at least a decade old. Crowley pushed down the urge to tell him he had written many letters over the years, attempting to explain as vaguely as possible why he had left, only to burn them. Aziraphale was so charming and gorgeous, surely some worthy soul had snapped him up the moment Crowley abandoned him in front of the Ritz.

He’d been wrong, it seemed. The realization Aziraphale had never gotten over it was doing a number on his poor, abused heart. 

“Angel,” he breathed the pet name so softly that no one but its owner would hear. The word struck home, earning him a soft, fluttery, affected gasp and a look so besotted that he was thankful for the dark wall that was his glasses. “Awful things are about to happen. You need to go.”   
  
Aziraphale considered him a long moment, expression inscrutable. “Will awful things happen to you?” He asked lowly, taking a step closer, hand outstretched but never coming to rest on him.

Crowley dredged up his best, cocky grin. “Naw. I’ve got it handled.”  _ Is that why you’re here? They figured out I have a card up my sleeve but they don’t know what it is. Are you a distraction? It’s a damn good one. _

Pretty lips pouted at him briefly, turning something inside him inside out. “...I think I shall remain. Madame Tracey is a friend of mine-”   
  
“- _ of course _ she is-” Crowley groaned at his dismal luck. Aziraphale continued as if he had said nothing at all.

“-and if things are afoot that may distress or harm her I simply must stay.” He nodded firmly, putting a cork on a situation he knew nothing about.

Stubborn, infuriating, beautiful, lovely bastard.

“Angel!” He spoke louder this time, letting some of his fear creep into his tone, drawing Aziraphale’s full attention to him. “I won’t be able to protect you if things go pear shaped!”   
  
The beautiful bastard smiled. “That’s fine. I’ll protect myself.”   
  


Crowley was going to pull his hair out. He’d forgotten how stubborn he was. He’d forgotten that Aziraphale could  _ not _ be bossed about. He’d forgotten that he was willful and clever. Worse yet, he’d forgotten how much he  _ adored  _ these qualities in him.   
  


A bell was rang. The conversation ended with them standing a bit too close together, a defiant smile battling against a frustrated grimace. 

Crowley looked away in bitter defeat, cursing fate and all it’s cruel machinations. 

Aziraphale stood taller, straightened his tie, and let out a breathy laugh. “Was that the dinner bell? You could have told me I was heading the wrong way, Anthony.” He chuckled, spun on his heel, and took confident strides in the direction the summoning came from. 

Crowley could do nothing but drag his feet and follow in his wake, mind buzzing as it attempted to account for this whole new variable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one while I work on The Big One.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: SUICIDE HAPPENS. SOME REFERENCE TO PROSTITUTION/CHILD ABUSE.

Dinner was a stiff, quiet affair. Servants and guests sat together, eyeing each other with nervous suspicion. There was no hiding now that this whole function was a sham meant to gather certain people together for some other purpose. Yet none left. They were entranced by the Master of the house. By the house itself. 

Crowley cared not a stitch for these people. He knew them all, whether they knew it or not. He was fond of disguises, after all. 

He pitied them. Felt it unfortunate that they were going to suffer much more than necessary because of him. He didn’t care though. 

He didn’t care.

If he told himself that enough perhaps it would become the truth. What was about to come would be easier if he didn’t. 

Just focus on Warlock. On Aziraphale.

He hadn’t touched his main course before it was whisked away and Master Mos stood from his seat at the end of the table. He began walking, clockwise, around the room studying his guests as he went. This was the beginning. 

Crowley clenched his fists at his knees and forced himself not to tremble. 

The Master finished his circle, humming a strange tune all the while, paused at the head of the table...then started again, this time giving each guest an envelope sealed with red wax. 

No one opened it. The command not to was silent and powerful. Crowley held his own in confusion. This...wasn’t the ritual he had been prepared for.

This wasn’t a ritual he knew. Panic began to set in but he found he couldn’t move. 

The Thing inside shuddered, hissed into his mind but he found it hard to hear. That was new. He always heard it clearly before. 

Master Mos finished his round and sat with his own envelope, smiling from ear to ear. When he raised it so did they all, as if they were puppets on strings.

When he broke the seal, so did they.

When he took out the contents they all moved as one.

_ Then the world became chaos and nothingness. _

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Her Grampy was sitting at the side of her bed, singing her an old song. In the next room she could hear her mother’s sewing machine whirring. The little girl was happy, if not a bit cold. Her grampy, noting her shivering, reached out and tucked her quilts up tighter around her chin and she giggled at the gooseflesh sensation that vibrated up through the entirety of her body.

The sounds of the sewing machine paused. Girl and grampy held still, listening. A moment passed and it started again. 

“I wish yer mudder would get on to bed,” Grampy sighed forlornly, looking at the pale, orange candlelight that crept beneath her bedroom door. “If yer fadder could keep a job she needn’t work half as hard as she does.”   
  
The girl nodded, frowning. Her father had an accident some time ago and hit his head. He hadn’t been the same since. “He tries,” she whispered to her grandfather. 

“I know, love, I know. He’s a sweet man from what I’ve seen. God was a bit cruel is all,” Grampy reassured with a sigh. “Least God saw fit to let me talk to ya.”   
  
Outside the door there were footsteps. The sewing machine had stopped and neither of them had noticed. The door swung open and the tired, pretty face of her mother peeked through, gasping softly. “My little darlin’! What are you doin’ up? It’s goin’ on half past twelve!”   
  
The girl looked to her bedside. Grampy put a finger to his lips, waved farewell, and faded into nothing the same as he always did. Her mother never saw. She couldn’t. “Had a bad dream.”   
  
“No wonder! It frigid in here!” Her mother pulled a shawl tighter about her shoulders. “I’ll have fadder toss another log on the fire.”   
  
She left without so much as a ‘goodnight’. 

No sooner had the door closed when another shape sat at the side of her bed. A child, younger than her, with blood on his blue lips. Oh! She hated these kinds of visits the most...but she smiled and turned to her side to look at him. “Hullo.”   
  
“Hullo,” he murmured softly. “...can I talk to you?”   
  
_ “I suppose, dearie,” she whispered back sadly. “No one else can hear you anymore.” _

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He was top of his class, which probably didn’t say much given how small the village was. Still, his parents had high hopes for him and, as the oldest, he was expected to send back whatever cash he made to them. Getting employment as a servant to someone so wealthy was a dream. 

The work was fairly easy at first. Press laundry, doing the dishes, all the standard chores he did back at home. Then the maid didn’t come in one day and he had to make the beds as well. Then the butler quit out of the blue and he had to take over his duties as well. He didn’t mind. The more servants that jumped ship, the more compensation he’d get. He’d have shoes bought for all his younger siblings soon enough.

The gardener passed away and he found himself having to pull weeds out of the vegetable garden. It was damp and chilly, which is why when the toad hopped right up to him he didn’t find it unusual. It was perfect weather for toads and he was stirring up all kinds of worms and insects as he worked. He even tossed a stray bug the creatures way every now and then.

The toad croaked. He chuckled. The ground trembled. He paused.

It rembled again and he stood up, realizing for the first time a fog as thick as pea soup had settled around him. He couldn’t have been more than ten feet from the garden wall yet he couldn’t even see the shadow of it. 

It was only fog but the quietness of it unsettled him. He decided to start on the laundry, leave the gardening until the weather cleared off. 

He couldn’t find the wall. The fog got thicker. The ground beneath him stuck to his shoes like muck. Where was the wall? Where was the gate?

Finally, there was a shadow of  _ something. _

The ground trembled at the same time the shadow moved. He froze. Another tremble and the shadow lurched forward. 

There was a loud, deep belching noise and something long and sticky launched from the shadow, wrapping around him, pulling him into its gaping gullet full of fire and brimstone-!

….

When he awoke it was night time. His Master was crouched at his side, watching him, a knife in hand. Master smiled at him.

“Well done! You made it!”   
  


He could taste dirt and ash.

_ He could taste power.  _

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
Her long, clawed fingers were scraping at the windows. His father had stopped screaming sometime ago. His mother and sister had already gone with her. Joined her. 

The witch in the woods only had to tie up this last loose end. 

He was far too big to be hiding under the bed yet he there he was, shivering and crying like a big baby. He’d put salt at all the entrances, emptied out all his mothers herb pots at the windows. His grandmum had once said that would deter those in league with the devil. So far it seemed to be working. 

It didn’t keep her voice out.

“Yeh wee bairn, come out and see yer ma. We’ll take yeh to get sweets. No harm will come to ye.”   
  
Lies, all of it. He could still smell the copper of his father’s blood. He whimpered, forced himself tighter beneath the bed, held the kitchen knife closer to him.

The witch gave a screech. There were other voices outside. Men praying, the sound of a bell….

Silence.

Then the door was thrown open and he screamed. The men pulled him out from beneath the bed and told him to be still. They’d take care of him. He’d seen the devil’s own and now there would be no normal life for him.

_ The WitchFinder Army had a new recruit. _

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There were voices drifting through her open window, an argument drawing her up from the depths of sleep. British, she realized, but only because the minister at the Anglican church was British as well. A young voice and an older voice.

_ “I already got what we need! We needn’t-!” _ _   
_ _   
_ __ “They probably made copies. This way all will be destroyed.” 

_ “At least wait until it’s empty!” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “If their such good seers they’ll know and get out.” _ _   
_ _   
_ __ “Wait! Sssssstop!” 

Fire. There was fire everywhere. Across the ceiling, across the floor, up the walls. It hadn’t been there just a moment before, she was sure. Everything had simply gone up like flash paper. 

She screamed for her Mother, her Father. They were screaming for her.She couldn’t get to her door. 

_ “Jump! JUMP! _ ” Was screamed above the crackling of the flames. Male but...she didn’t think it was her father’s. In fact, he wasn’t sure she even heard it with her ears. 

It had a good idea, though.    
  
The little girl let herself tumble from the second story bedroom window into the rose bushes below. 

...when had they gotten rose bushes? 

There was fire. She thought she could hear laughter. The hissing didn’t sound like it came from the fire. 

Oblivion claimed her.

When she woke she was relieved to find her parents alive. Their home was ashes.

_ As was the Book. _

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Drink, Gabriel.”   
  
He drank. The water tasted metallic. It always did.

“Let the Lord wash away the sins from your soul. Let you have no more impulses. You are a child of God, Gabriel.”   
  
This he knew. He was told so since birth. He’d been drinking water from the ancient font since then, as well. 

“Our ancestors claimed this from the pagans. It is blessed by the Lord now, Gabriel.”

It was. He could feel God’s power with every draught. He was infused with it. 

He was an instrument of God’s will.

God spoke to him.

God told him...told him….

_ To punish the sinners. _

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rejection letters were starting to pile up right next to his father’s medical bills. His mother told him not to tell father, it would destroy him to know how much of a failure his son was. She told him not to tell him that he had been fired from the factory, either. Money was tight. It would probably kill him to know how bad they were off.

Among the letters was an invitation, complete with train ticket, requesting his father’s expertise and promising a small fortune. 

Upstairs his father fell into another fit of hacking.

_ He took the invitation and made a plan. _

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She was an orphan until the Master came. He found her in an alleyway and whisked her away to his estate. She thought she was going to be a plaything, like the women who sold themselves on the corners talked about.

He didn’t touch her. 

She worked under the white haired man, ignored his black eyes. She worked under the dark skinned man, found him frightening. 

She would have rathered the alley’s. They were less foreboding.

Her room was infested with flies. Everytime she entered there more and more. She couldn’t find the source.

Sometimes the buzzing sounded like words.

It had been a long day when she returned to her room and found more flies than their had ever been. A black carpet of them had settled over every surface. She couldn’t even scream before they rose up and swarmed her-

_ -buzzing in her ears, droning- _

_ \- “Nice young host. Nice young flesh.”- _ _   
_ _   
_ __ -maggots in her mouth, in her veins-

...when she awoke the Master and the other two were there. They were surprised.

The Master was pleased. Renamed her. 

_ She didn’t feel anything. _

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One moment he was sleeping in the cot next to the furnace at his job, the next he was elsewhere.

There were reptiles. 

There was a man saying words in a language he didn’t know.

There was another with white hair standing in the corner, watching curiously, with an air of mild concern.

He screamed.

One of the lizards, the one with crazy eyes, scrambled over his chest and into his mouth.

Then he felt-

_ A M A Z I N G. _

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The mirror held his reflection but he was pretending it wasn’t him. He was rehearsing what he would say to assuage her fears, to make this parting gentler. 

“I know things have been hard since Miss Sera passed. I know you two cared deeply about each other and I did as well! You were both mothers to me! Yet that’s the problem. The people in town think you or her did something sinister to father, that he didn’t abandon us. The gossip and rumours are a weight on me. No one will speak to me. I’ve already seen to employment in London and arranged lodgings. I  _ promise _ I’ll send letters weekly! You can visit whenever you please-”   
  
A movement was reflected in the mirror. He turned to the window and found a dove perched on the sill, fluffing its feathers in an agitated manner. 

“Myrtle!” He exclaimed and crossed the room to throw open the window. “How did you get out of the aviary, you naughty thing!” 

No answer was forthcoming. The bird trembled in his hands as he clasped it gently to his breast. How unusual. In all his life he’d never known a bird to escape mothers aviary. It was his mother’s pride and joy!

Yet as he looked out the window he spotted one of the great white peacocks limping across the grass. In the trees several white finches were exploring live branches for the first time.

“Mother!” He called as he dashed from his room, dove still clasped in his hand. “The aviary is open!”   
  
She didn’t call back. The house was quite large, afterall. 

It didn’t take him long to cross the yard to the large aviary. He was shocked to find all the doors open. That...had never happened before.

He gasped in horror and stalled to a stop as he entered. Many dead birds. Bloody. Broken. Their necks at strange angles. His first thought was of foxes yet...how could they do such a thorough job?

“Ezra.” He whipped around, looking to the top, wrought iron balcony. There stood Mother, dressed in white, smiling serenely. A cord was wrapped around her neck. “Be a good boy, Ezra.” 

She dropped. There was a snap. 

The neighbors heard his screaming. The note she left absolved him of guilt when the police they called arrived. 

The dove suffocated in his rigid grip while they nursed the shock out him. The rest of the birds flew away.

He wished he could follow.

_ If only he had the wings of an angel. _

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was dark and wet. Where was he? 

He cried. Sobbed. Screamed for help. 

Nobody came. 

He sobbed more. 

He was hungry and thirsty. 

He slept and cried.

Nobody came.

Then there was a voice. Soft, soothing, worried. 

_ “How did you get here? Where did you come from?” _ __   
  
He was terrified. He cried harder. 

_ “Hussssh. Husssh. Do you have a mummy? A duddy?” _

He hiccoughed, nodded.

_ “Oh. Poor thing. You ssssslipped through  _ ** _the crackssss_ ** _ . I know where you come from. Come with me.  _ ** _There’ssss only one way home now._ ** _ I’m ssssso sssssssorry.” _ __   
  
He followed the voice into the dark.

There were yellow eyes always just ahead. _ “Yesss. Thisss way. That’sss a good boy.  _ ** _Ssssuch a talented little creature._ ** _ I can sssssee it.  _ ** _You are for me and I am for you.” _ **

He didn’t understand. He was only four. He didn’t even know his letters yet. The praise was a balm to his fear. 

He sank into the black water, up to his neck. 

Yellow eyes rose from the depths.

_ “I apologissse for my hunger.” _   
  
There were fangs in its mouth.

** _“It will be yourssss, asssswell.” _ **

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Crowley came back to himself slowly, his ears ringing and eyes unfocused as he tried to parse out what memories were his own and what memories were...were others. 

He hadn’t expected that. 

The others were bowed over the table, stirring slowly, baffled and disoriented. Next to him Aziraphale was trembling, hyperventilating. He may have been praying beneath his breath. In his hands he held a crumpled Star card.

Crowley held the Magician. 

He blinked away the last of his confusion in time to see Master Mos produce a knife from his cane and approach Warlock. “Now, my lords, give me the Elder One! This vessel, made from your devoted servants flesh and a pure souls body, is yours and these sacrifices will be taken to increase your hold!”   
  
No. This wasn’t supposed to be how it went! Warlock...Warlock was supposed to-to-

There wasn’t supposed to be a knife. 

Well, they’d know soon enough now. The plan would fail. What was one life in the face of billions?

...but...the boy...Warlock….

Just one life. It would haunt him but it was just one life-

The Master was raising the knife up. Warlock wasn’t stirring. 

“All Hail the Old One!” The knife flashed through the air.

Crowley found his voice, spoke without thinking, love driving him on.

** _“That isn’t your son!”_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was large and hard to write.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I AM THE GOD OF HEL(L) FIRE AND I BRING YOU-
> 
> FIRE.

The convents double doors flew open so violently they splintered on the walls they connected with. Crowley hadn’t meant to do that, indeed his hands had never even touched the door knobs, but that was how his power worked sometimes. Emotions made it stronger, unpredictable. He would have usually felt embarrassed by such an open display but not a thought was spared to the shouts of the frightened nuns or the damage done as he marched down the hallways.

He was in a hurry.

Sister Mary caught up to him as navigated the convent, talking all the while. “Master Crowley! Please wait! We have another couple in the maternity ward this evening so please-”   
  
“You’re the one that called me, Sister. At the Ritz no less! You said it was an Emergency!” He wasn’t hissing yet but he could feel it begin to edge at the back of his teeth. He’d left Aziraphale confused and concerned on the door steps, mood ruined by infernal secrets. 

He was already planning the bouquet he’d give the man as he begged his forgiveness for his sudden departure. 

Sister Mary was becoming more frantic as they neared Lily’s room, attempting to grab his elbow and stop him. “There was but it has passed now as things often do! There’s quite a distance between here and London, Master Crowley, you must understand! We did all we could and the baby is healthy but-!”

He stopped in the doorway, looking into the room that had been Lily’s for the past while. It smelled of copper and salt.

Death was on his tongue. 

One the bed there was sheet covered mound, blood on the sheets, a rosary laid across it.

Sister Mary was speaking to him but it was hard to hear her over the blood rushing in his ears and promptly freezing over. He was fairly certain he was dying. 

This...this wasn’t...what...what was supposed to-! He’d been so careful! How did it go so wrong? It shouldn’t have!   
  
He was in shock as the nun patiently guided him through the halls to another room. Within there were several cradles. Only two were occupied. 

When he came to himself he was standing before the leftmost one and being asked by Sister Mary if he wanted a moment alone with his ‘son’. He could only nod mutely. If he spoke he wasn’t sure if he’d laugh bitterly or cry in terror. 

He’d never held a baby before that moment. It was easier than he thought it would be. The little one was so small and light he was shocked that any person could ever be so small. Had he once been so vulnerable?

Had the Master?

The baby whimpered and instinctually rocked him, hushing it in a choked voice. He didn’t know what to do. The plan had been that once the baby was here and Lily had regained her strength he’d arrange passage for them to some far flung corner of the earth where mother and child could leave peacefully. He already had the money saved. Hell, he was already making preparations to erase himself society, though he wasn’t sure how he was going to explain that to...to….

What was he going to do now?

The Thing inside him chose that moment to hiss in his soul, chilling him to the bone. 

_ “It’sss sssssmall. Sssssmother it. Drop it in the Thamesssss. Kill. It. If it livesss the world will die. One life for billionssss.” _

One life for billions.

_ “Do not be sssssoft, Anthony J. Crowley. We love your sssssoftnessssss. We adore your humanity. Thisss, however? Thisss is a necesssssary evil.” _

It...was a plan, wasn’t it. It was better than the absence of a plan. 

The other baby began to cry, as if signalling him. It was blond, just like the one in his arms. Similarly sized. No measurements had been taken of either yet and blankets matched….

_ “Oooh. Yesss. That’sss more agreeable, issssn’t it?”  _ The Thing sounded just as relieved as he was beginning to feel.  _ “Masssster would perform the ritual, give the boy a patron, and assssssssume it failed. He’d need to ssstart over and the Eldesssst One would be dissssspleassssed by yet another failure. Do it, Anthony J. Crowley. Do it!” _

By the time Hastur and Ligur caught up to him, on the gangplank of a steamer leaving for America, the switch had long been done.

It didn’t make returning with the child any easier.

*************************************************************************************************************

Warlock wasn’t going to get a patron.

He was going to be killed and become a true vessel for something beyond the realm of imagination. 

The boy he raised from a baby was going to be killed while he watched. It would save the world and dishearten the Master, but Warlock would still be  _ dead.  _

His resolve shattered.

He had shouted with his heart, rather than his mind, and now found himself pinned under the Masters gaze. Warlock was looking on with wide, wondering eyes as well, terrified tears streaming down his face. The words hung in the air.

“What did you say?” The Master asked coldly.

Crowley swallowed. “That isn’t your son. That isn’t Lily’s child. Your son is lost in the world.”   
  
The room held its breath.

Then the Master exploded. 

“YOU FOOL! YOU TREACHEROUS SNAKE! I SHOULD HAVE SNAPPED YOUR NECK THE MINUTE YOU DISOBEYED!” 

It was a fury like none Crowley or the other servants had ever seen. Usually the Masters wrath was a calm, cold type that left one feeling like they could reason with him. This was not that. This was the devil denied his reward.

Well, in for a penny….

“My bloody patron is a literal snake god,” Crowley snarked, throwing his dark glasses to the table. He ignored the shocked gasps as yellow eyes and slit pupils were revealed. Ignored that Aziraphale recoiled, shifted away from him in horror. “It’s not my fault you were too fucking  _ ssssstupid _ to recognize what had happened!”

It felt good to talk back after keeping his head down for so long.

It didn’t feel good to have the Master commadere his free will.  **“STAND.”**

He did as he was told, standing before he even consciously registered the word, knocking his knees on the table and toppling his chair. It had been years since he used that method on him. He had hoped that all the deals he made with the nameless Thing inside him would have granted him the strength to resist.

Apparently there was no resisting the Masters patron. It stood in service to the Eldest One and had all the powers needed to ensure its success. Thus, the Master was empowered as well.

“WALK.”   
  
Crowley lurched forward, step after painful step. 

It was with dawning horror that he realized he was walking straight toward the dining rooms massive fireplace. 

“I had such high hopes for you, Crowley.” The Master was speaking normally now, chastising him like a disappointed parent. “Out of all the ones that serve me, you were the only one that was chosen not by me but by something else. I had eyes for your father! He was meant to be in your place...yet here you are! I was so excited, Crowley.”   
  
Another lurching step closer to the fire. “Don’t think I was  _ chossssen _ . The one that found me was pretty shocked to see me.” He couldn’t stop his death march.

In his head the Thing was hissing in alarm, trying to help him pull back. He could almost feel the phantom squeeze of its coils, the digging press of its scales. It liked being with Crowley. It liked dallying with humanity. It didn’t want to go back to the dark. It didn’t want the world to end.

He could feel the heat of the fire. 

The Master was smiling. He never broke eye contact with Crowley as he took a place next to the mantle, intent on having front row seats to this immolation. “Beelzebub!” He called, commanding the petite woman to his side.

She came, keeping her eyes down. She didn’t dare look at Crowley. He didn’t blame her one bit. This was a fate that could easily be hers if she ever disobeyed as flagrantly as he had. “Yes, Master.”   
  
“Go to the convent in which this boy was born.” He gestured violently to Warlock, causing the boy to flinch back in fear. “Find the true vessel and bring him here. We only seventy-two hours to complete what has started. You may use whatever power you need to accomplish your mission.”   
  
Beelzebub nodded once, glanced to Warlock thoughtfully, then finally made brief eye contact with Crowley. The look in her blue eyes was more shrewd than he would have preferred.

When she broke apart into flies the unnatural silence that had befallen the guests broke and they screamed or cursed or prayed. They were nearly drowned out by her buzzing as she swarmed upwards and out through some nook in the ceiling. 

He was toeing the hearth now. Two more steps and he’d be engulfed. Aziraphale, now free of silence, was shouting something but he couldn’t hear it over the racket of his own heart. 

He’d spent much of his youth before going to war trying to off himself and meeting with no success. Yet now that he had something he wanted to protect he was about to die. He’d have laughed it wasn’t so fucking tragic.

_ “Make a deal! Anthony J. Crowley make a deal! Give sssomething up! Give sssssomething big! Give usss your body and you will esssscape thissss.” _

A deal...he’d already made so many deals over the past decade. His tongue was forked in his mouth, he had fangs and venom he could barely conceal, eyes that would set women screaming, scales on his spine….

Aw, hell. What was one more in the name of love, right?

He took a step, the toe of his shoe in the fire. “MAKE IT QUICK!” He shouted, startling the Master, then took a final step in.

He didn’t feel the burn.

His scales were too thick.


	11. Chapter 11

Aziraphale once made love to Crowley by fire light. During the whirlwind that had been their short lived relationship he had decided he wished to spoil the object of his affections by taking him cottaging for a weekend. Crowley had been hesitant, claiming that his secretive ‘personal business’ kept him in London, then he showed up the next day all smiles and nervous excitement and “When do we leave, angel?”

It had been a peaceful weekend, full of laughter, wine, good food, and absolutely delectable company. They all but collapsed into each other, touching and memorizing every inch of their bodies. Aziraphale could still remember running his fingers up the mesmerizing man’s spine as they basked in the afterglow and heat of the fire, gazing into each others eyes as if the entirety of the universe didn’t exist outside of themselves. 

Crowley told him he loved him and Aziraphale never felt more blessed. 

Now fire had undone it all. 

“You bastard! Y-you monstrous fiend!” His voice was hoarse, face wet, and no matter how much he strained to stand he found he couldn’t. His body was locked firmly in place. All he had were impotent, grieving words. “You’ve killed him! Y-you’ve killed my-” He choked, unable to even say it. It felt as if his chest was cracking open, yawning wide, and spilling its sorrow out into the world. 

Master Mos was unaffected by his sobbing outburst. Indeed, when he turned to look at his guests he seemed to not see them at all. He beckoned to Hastur with a quirk of his index finger and the man came running. “We won’t be able to stop it now. We won’t get another chance for many decades. We best start and hope that Beelze-”  
  
He found himself cut short. The fireplace was spilling black, billowing clouds of smoke into the dining area as the flames, both in the lanterns and hearth, died to nothingness. The room was plunged into inky darkness. Aziraphale hacked into his hand, the smoke so acrid and foul it made breathing nigh impossible. 

The darkness was hissing. 

_ “Lussscien Mosssss. Othersss may bow but we refussse. You dare harm our acolyte? Let usss have tit for tat. Shall I sssspoil the game?” _

“I’ll get you another servant! An obedient soul that will serve you and the Eldest One! Choose from one of these fine people! Any would make a good-” Master Mos once again found himself cut off, this time by an angry, seething noise. 

_ “No thanksss. We’ve no need for ssservantsss. We hadn’t even the need for an acolyte. Consssider thisss indignation on behalf of a good companion...one that we are fond of.” _ _   
_   
The soft, hissing voice seemed to surround the table. Aziraphale was sure he could hear the rasp of scales against stone behind his back. _“Anathema Devisssce. The Wheel wasss your card. Upright. Ssseek it’s reversssal and you will find your grand reward.”_

There was a soft, understanding noise from across the table where he knew the young woman to be sitting. Then a scraping of a chair and the clack of high heels fleeing into the dark. Had she always been able to move?  
  
_ “Gabriel. You hold the reignsss to the Chariot. Reversssed. The voice you hear isss not who it claimsss to be. Seek to Right yourssself. Seek reconciliation and faith is yours.” _

“Such lunacy...but fascinating.” Gabriel's amused voice said no more yet Aziraphale got the distinct impression he had left, quickly and silently.

Master Mos shouted into the darkness. **“Stop this! This is not-”** **  
**   
_ “Madame Trassscey. The High Preistesssss. Upright. You mussst walk strong. Be you. There is no advicsssce I can give you.” _ _   
_   
_ “Shadwell. The Hermit. Reversed. Do what you think isss right. Do not be a coward, witchfinder.” _ _   
_   
_ “Newton Pulssssifer. Ssstrength. Reversed. Seek an Upright meaning and you’ll grasssp what you need to be whole. If not...well...it would be a shame.” _   
  
_ “Warlock.” _ Here there was a pause, as if the hissing creature in the darkness was struggling for some kind of control over itself. It writhed on the flooring, breathing heavily. “Warlock... _ Warlock...The Fool. _ Do not worry. You are not. I will- _ we will _ -Nanny Will- _we will_ -”   
  
It stopped, gasping and panting, pained. The boy yelped, startled by something in the dark, then went silent.

“...Angel…” His heart jumped into his throat. That voice! Just as quickly as it was then it was gone, replaced by foreign sibilance._ “Aziraphale. The Star. Upright. The Lover. Reversed. Use the former to correct the latter. We will need your help-” _ It paused, growling. “I don’t! We don’t need him! Run! Escape! Flee! _ NO. Stay. Help. Defend! _ Ngk! Don’t tell him that-!”   
  
The pressure left his body in a rush replaced by an airy floatness, as if he were falling from a great height but felt assured of safety. Then he landed on something soft and bouncy, the dark no longer inky and pressing, replaced by warm and giving light.

A bed, across from it that awful stained glass depiction of a Star. 

He was back in his room.

He bolted from the bed, flying to to the door, wrenching the knob...only to find it would not yield. No matter how he pulled the door stuck firm.

He was imprisoned.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
When the dark left Warlocks eyes he was no longer sitting in his seat, terrified for his life, but in a dimly lit, damp stone room that he didn’t recognize. All sounds of panic and his fathers terrible, furious voice but a memory. He was safe... or as safe as he could be.

His father was going to kill him. Stab him right there in front of a dozen people! All in the name of power and pleasing an unknowable entity.

Except...he wasn’t actually his son. Nanny had...what, exactly? Taken him from a happy family and placed him in harm’s way? Or taken him from some orphanage in place of a child he thought had more value?!

No. No...the man he called father thought he was worthless but Nanny didn’t. Nanny had saved him. Nanny had walked into the fire….

A sob choked him, then another. He was soon bawling in a way that he hadn’t done since he was at least seven. Nanny! Oh, Nanny! The one person who loved him in all the world was-was-was-!!!

“Ssssh. Young Master Warlock. Ssssh.” He startled at the voice. It was...well...he knew it but it was different. It wasn’t like the hissing voice he had heard before being whisked away. It was softer, soothing. 

“Nanny?” He looked around the room but saw hide nor hair of another person. There was only a singular, partially open door.

“I need you to listen. You have the medallion?” That was Nannys voice but...but it was coming from the walls. It seemed disembodied, airy.

Also, panicked. Uncertain. 

“Y-yes, Nanny.” He took the object from his pocket and waved vaguely around the room, hoping that he would see. 

“Good boy. Follow the hallway and go down the stairs. Take a left. Then another right. There you will find a door tha has a slot for that medallion. Use it...then wait. A man will join you shortly.”  
  
“And you?” He asked in alarm, approaching the wall tentatively. He didn’t like that tone Nanny was taking. He didn’t like what was going unsaid. “You are coming, yes?”   
  
“...I’ve made my bed now. I might as well nap in it willingly.”

“Nanny!” He scolded the walls, glaring at the stone work. It didn’t make him feel better, didn’t quell the alarm in him. “You’re not giving up, are you?!”  
  
“Oh, Warlock.” A sigh, so soft and filled with regret he nearly missed it. His heartbroke to hear the defeat evident in that simple, wordless noise.

“I’ve already given up everything, kid.”

The voice in the wall faded, slithered away from him, leaving him alone.

Warlock couldn’t help it. 

He cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something smaller until the next big one. No one ever said I was consistent.


	12. Chapter 12

When he was 15 Aziraphale tied his bed sheets together, jimmied the lock on his window, and absconded into the growing darkness with a biscuit tin tucked under his arm. He’s never done anything like it before, usually he was the good and obedient son his mother desired. Yet his former schoolmates has reached out to him, said they missed him since he started homeschooling, and he craved friendship more than maternal approval.

The party itself was a quiet affair, held in a corpse of woods behind what was known as Weylins Haunt. One of the girls had secreted away a bottle of cheap whiskey from her father’s stores and one of the boys had brought cigarettes. It was the first time he had partaken in either and he overdid it as novices trying to one up their peers often did.

He returned after dawn, barely able to stand on his own two feet, and found that his carefully constructed blanket rope was gone and his window shuttered.

His mother and Miss Pottle were waiting for him when he tried to sneak through the kitchen door. His mother had been hysterical, shrieking about the many ways he could have died, before slapping him. Miss Pottle had been far kinder, she simply sent him to bed and let the hangover punish him.

He swore he’d never sneak out again...yet here he was, tying tight knots in the sheets he stripped from the guest bed. Every now and then he’d pause in his work to strain his ears against the silence. There were no approaching footsteps as of yet but one could never be too cautious. 

There was evil in this house. He was sure he had not yet seen its true face.

He had a plan percolating and it all started with strong knots. Next he’d swing his suit case as hard as he was able at the dreadful stained glass window to shatter it then, hopefully, shimmy down his makeshift rope to...well, not freedom. Not exactly. He was determined to see Madame Tracey safe. 

He couldn’t lose anyone else. His heart wouldn’t be able to take it. Not after...after….

Crowley wasn’t dead, he tried to reason with himself. Aziraphale may have seen him walk into a roaring inferno but the voice that followed was certainly the red heads. It may have sounded like Crowley’s voice played over a gramophone in the middle of the Sahara but it  _ was _ his voice, he was certain of it. 

Or as certain as he could be of anything in this damnable mad house.

With a firm tug he secured his last knot and anchored the whole thing to the four post bed. It was time to facilitate a gleeful act of vandalism.

Hefting his heavy suitcase up, he took aim at the window. Once he shattered it he needed to be quick. Surely, breaking one of the windows was the best way to earn his hosts ire and the man had already shown himself to be exceptionally cruel. Aziraphale would have loved nothing more than to pop the Master Mos once in between the eyes with a sharp jab but, honestly, he felt he’d be slaughtered if he did so. 

Perhaps in the future, after he secured the safety of as many people as he was able.

With a grunt he swung his suitcase at the window with all his might.

It glanced off with a baffling, dull thud. 

His trajectory must have been off, he reasoned, and he took aim again. This time allowing less control of the luggage, allowing the weight of it to carry its momentum forward.

Another thud. There wasn’t so much as a spider web in glass. 

Panic and frustration began to wrestle each other for purchase in his chest. He swung again and again until he finally just threw the bloody case at the window with a shout. 

Nothing. The glass couldn’t be broken. 

Aziraphale stared, disbelieving, at the infuriating window. What kind of glass refused to break? It didn’t make a lick of sense!

Then again, nothing in this house seemed to. 

“It wasn’t a bad plan, angel.” The voice warmed and startled him all at once. “The world itself simply isn’t working as it normally does. Occult shit tends to mess with the fabric of reality.”

“Crowley…,” he breathed, peering at the shadows of his room. As far as he could tell he was alone, yet he got the sense that the man was with him. The voice certainly sounded like it was in the room with him, there was no echoey or muffled quality about it. “Where are you?”   
  
“Doesn’t matter. Listen, Aziraphale, I’m gunna open the door for you and I need you to find that passage I was telling you about earlier. Warlock will be waiting for you. Take care of him, yeh? He doesn’t deserve any of this. Neither of you do.”

Aziraphale crossed his arms defiantly over his chest. The nerve, telling him to run with his tail between his legs! It wasn’t an unappealing idea, exactly, but it was an insulting one. “You say that like you will not be joining us.”

“I’m a dead man walking. Hell, I’m not sure I’m even a man anymore.” 

“What does that mean, dear?” He huffed in frustration. “Talk sense.” 

“I can’t explain it, angel. Please don’t make me. Just...remember me kindly, yeh? As kind as you’re able, anyways. I know I...I know I hurt you.”   
  
His defiance slipped along with his crossed arms, falling to his side helplessly. “You broke my heart. I was so angry with you but, mostly, I was confused. I...didn’t think you wanted to leave but I wasn’t sure why you would.” He laughed humorlessly, gesturing to his surroundings vaguely. “I think I see part of it now.”

“A small part, I assure you.”

“Oh Crowley,” he turned in a helpless half circle, hands flapping ineffectively. “Please, my dear, won’t you let me see you? I’ll never be able to rest easy unless I know what has happened to you. I’ve torture myself for eleven years, if you wish me to go you simply must not allow me to wonder for the rest of my life!” 

He was being manipulative, even unfair. His beautiful darling obviously had his reasons for not appearing in the flesh but...well, Aziraphale could selfish at the worst of times. He needed this. 

There was a heavy, sad sigh. “Right. Don’t blame me for the nightmares.” 

The grate of the darkened fireplace popped open, startling the bookseller. As he watched something long, thick, and dark as the shadows that occupied the guest room with him slipped out of the chimney, where the creature must have been hiding. 

The slinking shape seemed to unravel forever, impossible large, creeping across the floor and raising a jet black head up to meet him eye to eye. 

Oh, and what eyes! Burning yellow and unblinking...but unmistakable in the emotion they contained. 

“Oh my darling!” He gasped, horrified. Tears threatened to spill over as the gravity of his loves situation finally made itself known to him. Yet...yet…. “I always thought you to be a sinuous, seductive creature dear.”

There was a pause, the serpent studying him with surprised eyes. “...you’re a loony. Also, not the reaction I was expecting,” the great serpent confessed.

“Always glad to subvert your expectations, my dear,” Aziraphale hummed as he stepped back towards where a candle lay. This development required further investigation, something that was exceedingly difficult to do by the dim, eerie light of the stained glass window. 

He pat down his coat, searching in vain for some long forgotten match. “Blast,” he muttered when he came up empty. It was in that moment all the candles in the room and the fireplace lit up, flooding the room with light. 

Aziraphale turned and found the snake staring at him in a familiar way. “Thank you, darling. You’d have made a magnificent lamp lighter.”

The snake hissed in baffled amusement, apparently off put by his lack of terror. Good. He could never be afraid of Crowley, no matter how odd the circumstances. “How are you like this? I’m a bleedin’ magical snake, angel.”   
  
“Better than being burnt up, I dare say.” He countered softly, stepping closer. Yes, this was much better. Crowley as a snake was better than Crowley being dead. Reaching out with consciously steady hands, he cupped his face (snout? jaw?) and made no effort to conceal how he intently he studied the glistening, black scales, the soft red underbelly, the amber eyes….

“I have radiators in the shop,” he declared suddenly, meeting Crowley’s eyes. “And quilts.”   
  
“What?”   
  
Aziraphale smiled his warmest smile. “Reptiles need warmth, yes?” He chuckled softly, smoothing a hand over the top of his head, tracing scales. “I won’t leave you here, my dear. We shall figure out this part after.”   
  
“Aziraphale,” Crowley groaned, frustrated and endeared. “You really aren’t going to leave, are you?”   
  
“Well, I must get Madame Tracey first. The poor dear is probably beside herself with terror. I shall never forgive myself if I left her here.” He turned away again, slipping his jacket off and setting about rolling his sleeves up to the elbow. “I’m afraid I’m going to need you to explain some things to me, though. Answer some questions.”

When Aziraphale looked back he found Crowley lying on the floor, gazing up with pupils that were nearly round and so black the candles reflected there flickered like stars. “I don’t deserve this. I’m a monster, angel. I was back then too...more so now.” 

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Aziraphale huffed and sat on the edge of the bed. “Now, will you answer my questions?”

There was a displeased hiss. “Assssk away.”   
  
“My first question is simple enough.” He settled himself in, ready to absorb whatever information was offered. 

  
“Who _ is  _ Lucien Mos?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yay time for exposition.


	13. Chapter 13

Lucien couldn’t remember a lot about his former life. He had some rank in the Holy Roman Empire and his family had been important, wealthy, and he inherited it all. He sometimes thought he may have been married or had children and there may have been a plague that stole them away. There also may have been a scandal that forced him to flee, a fall from grace he couldn’t recall the details of. He didn’t examine these memories. They were unimportant. 

What he did remember was the wreckage he had clung to after the ship he booked passage on had been caught in a freak storm. The remains of the door to the captains quarters if the golden knob that sparkled and glinted in the flashes of lightning was anything to go by. He shivered and hacked up sea water, many times he found himself submerged in briney blackness only to bob to the surface again, still clinging to the door, and be whipped by the wind. 

When the storm passed the sea stilled. On all sides had been blue. Skies meeting sea in an endless, despair inducing palette only broken by the harsh glare of the sun. 

He laid on the door for days under the merciless sun and the cruel moon that would follow. Hunger gnawed at his insides, thirst made wool of his tongue. The ocean was as fast as the sky and no ship blotted the horizon. He was a dead man. There would be no rescue. 

Delirium set in. With it came the voices, telling him to paddle opposite the sun course. He didn’t question these mouthless voices. Why should he? A mad dead man was the same as a sane one, after all. 

He paddled with his hands frantically, giggling and nodding along with the voices in his head. He paddled until his arms burned with the effort, the last of the energy he contained being expended on a fruitless endeavor. 

Then the island came into view. 

The current seemed to take over then, carrying him along speedily to its sharp, obsidian shores. He was very nearly dashed upon the glassy black rocks but managed to find a hold and climb up against the nonsensical angles. When he reached the top he found a table made of the same black glass, set with all manner of food and drink.

He gorged himself. By the time he was finished he had devoured all that had been offered.

The voices returned, urging him into the stark, black columns that comprised the islands interior. He followed jagged paths and admired sea slicked architecture. This place had been submerged until recently, he surmised. Some underwater quake had taken it up from the depths and saved him from certain death. It didn’t explain the food of drink but Lucien believed in the unexplainable. He had once been a devout follower of the Lord, after all, before tragedy and misfortune caused him to curse the Almighties name. 

He was a creature raised on blind faith.

The altar he found was somehow blacker than the obsidian that surrounded it. The large, protruding statue that sat behind it bore a baffling beast of tentacles and wings. Looking at it instilled terror in Lucien...but also awe. There was a power in that cast gaze that set his mouth watering and put his desires at the forefront of his mind.

He worshipped at the altar, prayed and praised as only a good church boy could. He sang hymns that he hadn’t known before that moment and spoke in scripture written in languages he’d never learned. He cut himself on the rocks and spilled his life's essence over the altar in offerance.

The voices praised him, made promises and deals. He agreed to every single one.

At some point exhaustion or blood loss set in. His vision grew foggy, his body sluggish, and words slurred. Before unconsciousness claimed him he heard the sharp CRACK of stone shattered the stillness of the air. Light spilled from the fissure that had formed in the statue and a long, sickly green tentacle slithered out, reaching to the sky with a terrible noise-

When he awoke he had a new surname, given to him bya god older than God. He was ashore and in a warm hospital bed. They’d found him adrift, they said. It was a miracle he survived and been found, they said. They found him with only a sleek, white cain and a pocket full of money and jewels, they said.

From that day forward Lucien Mos had outstanding luck and fortune. Whatever he wanted was his.

He tithed regularly. He had to pay back the god that had given him his life, extended it as the years passed. 

Master Lucien Mos would see his god on the throne of Heaven. He’d make sure of it. No matter the cost!

_ (“I’d say that’s a very biblical telling if not for the wickedness of it all,” Aziraphale commented blithely. “So, where do we all play into this, my love?”) _

There needed to be footholds on earth for the resurrection to be completed. His god needed subordinates, as did Mos. He set to work as soon as he understood what was needed, building a simple home on a leyline and drawing in the first. 

A woman, it turned out, would be the first member of the arcana he found. A spinster with no family. She was a book keeper’s daughter he became familiar with during his research into his god. She collected tome’s the church deemed evil and was eager to share them. When he proposed she come to his small estate and see what happened when they did one of the rituals she came along with academic excitement. 

She became alarmed when the fog set in.

She screamed when he forced her into the circle.

As with all first attempts it turned out to be a rather ineloquent, messy affair. He hadn’t done enough to balance things and the patron that claimed her did so accidentally, clumsily. He made notes to perhaps, next time, invite the patron into their realm instead of sending their potential host to them. 

She came back grotesque, a creature that was foul to look upon and would not be able to pass in society. Sharp toothed, hunched, and scaled. Indeed, if it were not for the scraps of her former clothing that hung about her twisted frame he’d have never known this thing had once been human. 

She was still intelligent, though. The patron and the woman held the same mind, the same thoughts. Both were loyal to his god, and thus by extension, Mos. 

She called herself Dagon. She became his archivist, his researcher, his only confidant. The Justice Arcana was in his grasp. 

After that, he discovered that several people could be the one arcana. He learned to be more discerning in his choices, looking for those touched by misfortune or unnatural circumstances. 

The Tower came next. A bright young man in a small village. He took him in as a servant and, once he was certain of his choice, Mos set about bringing in another patron. The leyline he had settled on proved to be lacking the energy needed for the job so he found it elsewhere. No one would notice if a few servants went missing….

It was a Toad. It was disgusting. 

It swallowed the young man whole, belched fire. 

When the fog cleared the young man had changed and the toad was gone. He named him Hastur and he was powerful and loyal but quickly proved to be unstable.

The Hanged Man came next. Ligur was more stable but vicious and violent. It took an alarming amount of blood and energy to summon his patron. He’d attract attention if her kept up like this. 

His god gave him a vision. A place where leylines intersected. A place where power ran high and the veil’s thin. Thus began the Mos estate. 

Beelzebub, the Hierophant, was the first created here and she was perfect. She looked human and held power. The only thing she lacked was outward emotion and that was unneeded anyways. 

Then things got cocked up. 

The gardener's son went missing. Mos thought nothing of it. A child was of no concern to him as long as he had the father. As long as he had the Magician.

Then the boy returned, marked and physically holding his patron inside of himself, and damn near human in appearance and expression.

The Magician had been chosen for him.

(Aziraphale said nothing for a moment as he mulled the facts of the matter over. If he was The Star...did that mean there was some beast waiting to claim his body and soul? That seemed to be the most likely conclusion. “...the boy. Warlock. What of him?”)

…

…

Crowley only had his own and the Things observations to go by. The Master had played this one close to his chest but Crowley thought himself clever and the Thing thought itself knowledgeable. Together they believed they had it figured out until it all got turned on its ass.

What Crowley knew was that he returned from the Great War a shivering, shell-shocked mess and found that the Master had found the Empress and taken her as a wife. No patron was given to her. It vexed Crowley greatly until he spoke with the pretty young lady and found her to be a sweet, devout soul that believed in love and life. 

He became fond of her. Not romantically! She was just a good friend and that was something he never had before. Lily Mos eased him through the worst of his shell shock, spoke comfort to him, filled him with hope and love. She didn’t balk when the Thing squirmed in him or when It hissed with his voice. She believed she was on that estate to heal and spread Gods love. 

Lily Mos never received a patron.

She received the the Eldest Ones child.

Crowley and the Thing agonized as they watched her grow pale and listless. This child would herald the Eldest Ones step into the world. That old god would claim it, they were sure, become its patron and through it destroy the world, remake it as it pleased. 

When Crowley came to the mother to be with his thoughts and theories she reacted like one defeated. Her light was drained. She was hopeless. 

He couldn’t bear it.

The Thing couldn’t bear it. 

So, they stole her. 

She smiled and thanked him as he set her up in that convent. She grew strong and vibrant. They made plans about where her and the unfortunate child could go to escape. She insisted he make his own life, taste his freedom.

...so he went to a bar, got drunk….

Met an angel.

_ (Aziraphale’s throat was tight. Crowley’s unblinking eyes were elsewhere, focused on the wall. He reached for him, lifting that pointed snout carefully so they could meet each other’s gazes. “...one last question. Th-that night. At the Ritz....?”) _

Crowley was in love with the man sitting opposite him. He hadn’t taken his eyes off him all night. Food didn’t hold much appeal to him, the hemlock and the Thing saw to that, but he was hungry in a way he normally associated with a desire for power and freedom. He wanted Aziraphale. He wanted to be with him for the rest of his ill begotten life. He’d serve him hand and foot. He’d make him breakfast in the morning and tea in the evenings. 

Just a week or two more and he’d have Lily safely set up in some far flung country. He’d have to change his name and he wasn’t yet sure how he’d justify that to Aziraphale but...but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. Aziraphale already believed he was part of some gang or drug ring so maybe he’d lean into that. Say he was going straight and needed a new moniker to protect them.

Oh Lord! Them! There was a THEM!

The Thing was content with a domestic arrangement. It liked Aziraphale. Found his many quirks and eccentricities endlessly amusing. It didn’t love him like Crowley did but it found delight in their love for each other. It was new, something it had no experience in and wished to observe further. 

A server approached the table. Told Crowley there was an urgent call for him. He smiled at his angel and promised to be right back.

Minutes later he was in a panic and slipping out the front door. 

He could hear Aziraphale calling at his back, asking what was wrong. The pain and confusion was palpable. He tried to reassure him. “It’s a work emergency. I’m so sorry. I’ll be back soon. Please don’t look at me like that!” 

Aziraphale was furious. Hurt.

He’d need to make it up to him.

...expect he found his best friend dead in her hospital bed, a baby in his possession, and a choice in his hands. 

All his plans went up in smoke.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aziraphale was crying and Crowley had no hands to reach out and wipe away the tears. He couldn’t idly sit by and watch his angels despair, though. Tentatively he slithered closer, onto the bed, and draped himself over the man’s shoulders. This body at least made for a good scarf. 

_ Careful of you fangs. Careful of you instincts. _ The Thing hissed softly in warning.  _ Such natures are hard to control, even for us. _

Crowley wished it would shut up. As if he’d bite Aziraphale. If he did that he’d make an ouroboros of himself and swallow his brand new tail in penance. 

Aziraphale’s hand reached up and stroked his scales in a way that shouldn’t have felt as delicious as it did. Honestly, Aziraphale was taking this all too well. He’d been steady until he explained what happened at the Ritz. Determined to understand the gravity of their situation and unfazed by the strangeness of it all. 

Crowley loved this strange, accepting, angel of a man with all of his fractured soul. 

How he wished he’d leave! 

“Do you sssee why you need to go now, angel?” He hissed in his ear, attempting to coax him. “Tonight the veil is down. The fog is pressing at the windows. Monsters are creeping in and they’ll steal away what makes you YOU. I can’t let that happen to you or Warlock. Please leave.”   
  
His angel shudder beneath him and mopped at his eyes with the back of his hand. His shoulders soon straightened and strength returned to him. Crowley hissed a sigh, knowing he’d never win this one. 

“Shall we go now, my dear? Now that I’m better prepared?” Aziraphale turned his face, still splotchy from tears, to look at where Crowley’s head rested upon his shoulder. He smiled in that disarming way that made Crowley squirm on the inside...and now on the outside if the way his coils tightened and released were any indication. 

“...ssstay close.” He murmured as he slipped away to the floor. “I won’t lose you. Not again. Never again.”   
  
Aziraphale, bless him, somehow smiled  _ brighter. _

Perhaps...everything truly would be okay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I could write chapters of Crowley and Aziraphale just romancing each other in tooth rottingly fluffy ways while danger presses in. :P


	14. Chapter 14

The halls were changing, Anathema was sure of it. She backtracked once and found a wall in place of the archway she had passed through moments before despite having not taken any turns. The estate had somehow become a labyrinth that didn’t maintain a steady shape, no doubt designed to confuse and madden those trapped within. 

Anathema was a witch and had experience with magic but this was the first time she had ever encountered something so wickedly potent. The laws of reality and nature seemed to be waning, changing as they pleased to suit some infernal agenda. The hissing voice that had come from the dark had given her cryptic advice yet none on how to escape this wretched place. 

Not that she could until she had the book. 

A library would be a massive room in a place like this, she reasoned. It would probably have a massive door to go with it. She had yet to see anything like that and, the smaller doors she tried, refused to yield to her no matter what charms she placed upon the locks. She was beginning to wonder if she was going to be wandering the halls until she was killed or something more sinister happened when she turned a corner and ran smack dab into the plain young man, Newton Pulsifer. 

Anathema screamed and fell to the floor...but so did Newton, immediately easing her embarrassment. 

“Miss Device!” The young man flustered as he scrambled to his feet. A trembling, clammy hand was offered to her. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t hear you-!”   
  
“It’s alright,” she reassured, taking his hand and letting herself be pulled back upright. It would have been a hassle to try on her own, her skirts impeded her movements in ways that were quickly becoming worrisome. “Have you seen a library?”

“Here?” He asked, dark brows knitting in confusion. 

“No. New York City. Of course I mean here!” She was on edge and, really, she had no time to entertain dull questions from dull men. 

Newton, to his credit, didn’t wince like many men she encountered did when she snapped at them. In fact, he bowed his head apologetically. “No. I can’t say I have. I’ve been mostly trying to find an exit but...well...this is going to sound crazy but-”

“The architecture is changing. I know,” she nodded firmly and stepped around him, looking down the corridor he had come from. It was long and dark, no windows or doors lined the walls. It seemed to go on forever. 

He turned and followed her gaze. “...I think it’s changed again. I literally just left an empty room before I turned this corner.” He was pale and shaking all over but his soft voice remained steady. It was admirable, in a way. He obviously terrified and well out of his element but doing his best to keep a brave face, if only for her benefit. Maybe he’d been a panicked mess just moments before they ran into each other but, if he that were so, he was doing a fantastic job of hiding it now. 

“If it has changed...that probably means there’s some other path at the end,” Anathema guessed, squinting through her round glasses into the dark. “Or we’re being corralled.”

“Do they mean to kill us all?” Newton asked, his voice pitching upwards slightly. 

“They’re probably seeking to sacrifice us in some bloody ritual,” she informed him bluntly, seeing no reason to sugar coat the facts of the matter. “He was about to kill that poor little boy, after all.”

Newton grew paler, his voice softer. “Oh.”

“I wouldn’t worry.” That was a lie. She was worried and so should he but she got the feeling that this was a man not used to strange events. It was better if he believed there was some hope. Besides, Agnes had led her here. She didn’t believe that her ancestor would intentionally lead her to her death. “That red headed man, Crowley. He seemed to throw a big wrench in their plans.”

“Do you think?” He looked to her hopefully and she felt a pang of guilt. Just because Agnes had led  _ her  _ here didn’t mean that the others would fair well. He smiled a little, compounding her guilt. “I’d still like to get out of here sooner than later.” 

“I must find the book they’ve taken first.” She fully stepped around him and began her journey down the hall. “I won’t leave until I have it.”   
  
“Is it important?” He was following her. She tried to be annoyed by that but found she couldn’t. There was safety in numbers, afterall, and he was tolerably mild. He didn’t seem to want to pick a fight or demonstrate what a big, brave man he was by taking control of her decisions. He was attracted to her, she could tell by his aura, but respectfully so. She’d lucked out, really. 

“Very.” She informed him, expecting to have to elaborate.

Surprisingly, she didn’t. Newton simply nodded a little and kept following. “May I stay with you then? Until you have what you need? I want to get out but, um, being alone in this place...well. I’d rather delay than be alone.”

Anathema, if she were honest with herself, felt similarly. Having company made the dark and eerie a little less frightening. 

She smiled at him and bowed her head in ascent. “Follow my lead and we’ll be fine, Mister Pulsifer.” She hoped that was true. 

He smiled at her then, cheeks reddening in a way that she found kind of alarmingly becoming. 

“Call me Newt.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The dark was no threat to Gabriel. He hadn’t feared it even when he was a child. Oh, he didn’t blame others if the dark was frightening to them. It concealed things, after all, and many of mankind's most wicked deeds happened under the cover of darkness. The faithless and unblessed had much to fear from the dark. 

Gabriel was neither faithless or unblessed. He was holy. He was touched by the divine. She was constantly speaking in his ear, guiding his actions. She was very loud this evening. 

** _Fear not, Gabriel! I will be with you soon! I will take you from this place of sin! Tonight is the night you ascend and become like your namesake! _ **

A tremor ran up his spine as She spoke and he grinned with excitement at the possibility of seeing the Almighties face. “We will save them all, won’t we?” He asked, thinking of the other poor souls wandering the house. 

** _Every last one, Gabriel. _ **

Good. He was worried about them. This Master Mos was evidently in league with the devil and such evil could not be allowed to spread. The child would need to come first, as they were the most innocent and had the ability to be truly repentant. The women next, no matter what faith they practiced as he was told by Her long ago it was not his place to judge another based on the beliefs.

The men were a bit trickier to figure out. Shadwell seemed to have the faith but he also stank of a lifetime of vice and, frankly, his fashion sense was detestable. Had the man even tried to make himself presentable before dinner? Honestly! 

Young Pulsifer was meek and mild, he could probably brought in to Her glory easily enough. 

Aziraphale...another named for an angel. That was interesting. Homosexual, apparently, but God had told him that was quite alright. His taste of men left a lot to be desired, however….

Master Lucien Mos would need to be purged. He was obviously in league with the devil himself. 

All Gabriel needed was a patch of sky.

He’d call Her power down directly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Now, now Mr. Shadwell!” Madame Tracey tutted distractedly as she contemplated the dark, foreboding staircase that led downwards. There was a strong, relatively lonely feeling coming from somewhere below. The spirits weren’t whispering to her to be weary the way they had about the last few rooms. “We’ll never move forward if we stay in the light.”   
  
The hesitant, frightened man was at her back. A crossbow that he had assembled from parts of his massive overcoat was clutched in his shaking hand. “We’re in the devil's own house, yeh lunatic. Any path intae the dark will bring ruin, mark mae words.”   
  
Shadwell had been saying many such pleasant, uplifting things since they bumped into each other. Madame Tracey supposed it was probably a good trait to be overly cautious when one was a witchfinder but this hesitance was bordering on cowardice. 

She simply didn’t have time for it.

“Then stay here, Mr. Shadwell, and I’ll scout what lies below myself.” She nodded firmly to herself and straightened her shawls. Something important was lurking below. The spirits hadn’t told her as much but her intuition was screaming to continue forward. 

Her intuition rarely led her astray. 

“What? By yerself!” The man looked at her with wide, watery eyes full of frustrated disbelief. Ah, so she had insulted his manhood. He probably thought that she was goading him.

“I’d prefer not to,” she lied smoothly. It would be much easier to keep going without having to entertain doomsday theories every few feet. She felt badly for the man, he was clearly out of his element and a spirit had whispered in her ear that he hadn’t faced anything occult in nature in decades. He had truly believed the WitchFinder Army had stamped such things out of the world. 

Bravery was a skill like any other, one that was practiced by approaching one’s own fear and overcoming it. Shadwell was out of practice. Madame Tracey was not. She entertained the social elite across Europe as an unmarried woman with otherworldly abilities. She feared men that could not be told ‘no’ more than she feared any infernal, unknown beast that lurked in the shadows. 

Shadwell huffed a sigh and cut rudely in front of her, beginning to descend the stairs. “...doesn’t seem a good place for n’exit.”

Madame Tracey smiled and followed. “It doesn’t, does it.”   
  
She was quite sure there would be no exit at the bottom.

Perhaps there would be salvation, however. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In a small town called Tadfield there lay a convent. It was small by most standards as becoming a wife of the Lord had fallen out of fashion as the decades passed but the members were devout and it was a perfectly serviceable hospital for the townsfolk. It had once had a thriving garden, cultivated by a grateful guest, but a blackeyed man had come eleven years ago and burned it to the ground in a rage. 

No green thing had bloomed there since. 

It was here that Sister Mary found herself walking. She was restless in a way she rarely was. Sleep eluded her and, rather than disturb her fellow Sisters, she decided a night of walking and praying would set her at ease. Thus far, it was not working. The world felt wrong in ways that she couldn’t describe, as if the very earth was holding its breath. All was still and silent. 

Except for the house fly that was persistently buzzing in her ear. She continuously gently swat it away but it was persistent, bobbing and zagging around her in dizzying patterns. It soon had a friend...then another. A rat had probably died in one of the ashy garden patches again. Blast. She’d need to tell the Mother in morning and they’d all be combing the gardens for the poor creature. 

Another fly, then another. It must have been crawling with maggots to attract so many. Sister Mary did not relish the idea of finding the creature. 

She turned back to the doors, intent on leaving the infestation and finding a more comfortable place to cultivate her insomnia.

A petite woman dressed in a rumbled suit stood between her and the doors.

“Oh goodness!” She exclaimed in fright, her hand clutching her chest. “Dear child, you frightened me! What brings you here at this hour?”   
  
She didn’t recognize this woman from the town. Such dark hair and blue eyes would stand out anywhere. If nothing else, her cold and impassive expression would have cemented this woman in the nun’s memory. 

“Eleven years ago a woman was brought here by a man. She had a baby. She died.” The petite woman explained in a clipped voice that stirred goosebumps on Sister Mary’s flesh. “The woman’s name was Lilith Mos. The man was-”

“Anthony Crowley!” The Sister beamed, looking around the dead garden and fondly recalling how it had flourished under his care. “Such a pity what happened to his woman. He looked like the ground had been ripped out from under him, he did. I suppose any man would have looked the same to find they were suddenly a single father!”

The woman tilted her head slightly, considering her. “There was another couple here that night. They had a baby as well.”   
  
Her brow knit. It was easier to remember the tragedies than the births that went well...but she could remember the couple. Suddenly, this conversation felt less savory. “Yes. What of it?”   
  
“Who were they.” It wasn’t a question. It was a demand. 

The nun stood straighter. “Why do you want to know, Miss?”   
  
The stranger considered her a moment longer, flies buzzing around her head like a filthy halo. Sister Mary was becoming increasingly alarmed. She clutched her rosary like a lifeline. “...I don’t wish to hurt you, Sister. It would waste time.”   
  
The air was thick with flies. They were flying at the nuns face, swarming her eyes, trying to creep into her nose and mouth. She gasped in horror and stumbled back as they landed on her, thick and heavy. 

“A name. All I need is a name.” The woman walked closer, seemingly unaffected by the insects. “A name and you will live until morning. Otherwise, your Sisters will find naught but a skeleton picked clean come morning.”

Sister Mary believed in God. She also believed in the Devil.

In that moment she believed she was looking at the latter in the face.

“The Youngs!” She screamed out in terror, flies crawling into her mouth the moment it opened. “In town! It was the Youngs!”   
  
She closed her eyes against the infestation of flies, the buzzing. It took her a long time to realize that both had stopped.

When she finally dared look again she found herself alone in the dead garden.

She fled the convent before the sun rose that morning, leaving her rosary and faith behind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update on the others. :P


	15. Chapter 15

_ It did not pay much mind to the others usually. It saw no point in pressing against the Veil and looking outwards. The Eldest One had not kept any of its promises thus far so why tease itself with glimpses of a universe that was beyond it? There was plenty to see here. If only the others saw the practicality of a good nest, then they would be content.  _

_ It liked its nest. It had been building it since it was birthed. It had weaved stardust and cosmic rays together for warmth, gathered the shiniest meteorites for decoration, and many tome’s, tablets, and scrolls were tucked in its shifting boughs. Its own feathers kept it all soft and downy, just as it wanted. There were pretty black scales here as well, from its wandering friend. It had been gone for, oh, a few days now? Or perhaps years? Millenia? _

_ Time was difficult for their kind. It was insignificant.  _

_ Anyways, its friend had wandered. Others said it found an acolyte which...did not seem correct. Its friend disliked responsibilities immensely and have worshippers was just that, a responsibility. Its friend had gone so far as to bury its temple deep beneath bedrock to prevent such things while it, for its part, had put its own temple in the center of a ball of gas to do the same. They both thought themselves clever for their subversions. It was one of the points they had bonded over eons ago. _

_ It had faith its friend would return.  _

_ There was activity mounting. There were far too many of their kind crowded in the one area, pressing against the Veil. Perhaps it might catch a glimpse of its friend if it went as well?  _

_ It went and easily pushed the weaker to the side. It was one of the older ones, after all, and one of the Major as well. No sword or cup for it. It was what it was since birth.  _

_ (It did keep swords. Many. All flaming. It was a hobby to make them from its own feathers then place them back. Its friend had teased it for vanity. It could not disagree. It offered its friend one once and was rejected. It had swords in its mouth which, really, seemed a poor place to keep something so sharp but it didn’t want to judge.) _

_ It pressed alongside another like itself. Major and feathered. This one had its head through for many days now. Or years. Or millenia. It had had an easy foothold. It had worshippers.  _

_ (Its wings were looking quite frumpy. Were those mammals so interesting that it had forgotten itself?) _

_ The Veil was widening. It was thin. Not quite big enough for the one with its head already through but smaller ones were squeezing out. Hm. Perhaps the Eldest One was making good on its promise?  _

_ It sniffed and watched and listened, trying to learn what the scope it all was. It got distracted by sniffing. Something...smelled good. Many things smelled good! It had tasted everything its reality had to offer over the eons. Comets and dust and motes of hydrogen. These scents were new. There were savories, sweets, bitters, sours! It made it salivate.  _

_ Perhaps a little look would not hurt? If it could just press its face through maybe it could get a mouthful of _ ** _ EVERYTHING?_ ** _ _

_ It would not be enough. _

_ ...it was going to have to leave its nest.  _

_ It was not entirely sure about that. It had spent a long, long time getting it just right! Was it such a glutton that it would drop such hard work for a snack? Its friend hadn’t even seen its newest molt yet!  _

_ ...its...friend…? _

_ It sniffed and sniffed once again.  _

_ Oh! Its friend was on the other side! They  _ ** _had_ ** _ gone beyond!  _

_ ...they were...distressed? No...concerned? Worried?  _

_ Afraid.  _

_ Oh. It did not approve of that at all! Its infinite feathers fluffed and alighted with white flame, its many eyes glaring. What could cause such fear?  _

_ Well, it would not find the answers here!  _

_ It pushed past the others, strained and beat its wings against the Veil. _

_ Then, with a POP, it was through.  _

_ It remembered that gravity was a thing that existed in other planes far too late. _

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Master Mos stood alongside Hastur and Ligur in the top tower. A few of the old ones had come through already. Two at least, small ones. Pretty soon they would find their intended hosts and their plans would be in full swing. Master Mos rarely smiled but he was at the moment. 

It was Ligur that cursed loudly. “Ah fuck.” 

Then Hastur groaned, a hand to his head. 

Master Mos didn’t have time to question what warranted such annoyed reactions before he felt a tremendous surge at the core of his soul. Something large had just forced its way through. Something large and strong. Something large, strong, and-

“Fuckin’ bird brain,” Hastur grumbled, looking to where the sky would be if they could see it through the thick carpet of mist and fog that surrounded the estate, obscuring everything. Master Mos followed the black eyed gaze and was startled to find that light was making its way through the fog. 

Wait.

That was a ball of fire.

A growing ball of fire at that.

As he stared in shock he watched as the ball of flame sailed over the estate, making a noise not unlike an entire orchestra’s brass section blowing all at once, and crashed somewhere in the gardens. The flames went out quickly and silence overtook the grounds before the shaking of the impact had even stopped. 

Then there was a rather flute sounding whine. 

“...dare I ask which one?” Master Mos asked the other two, trying to not sound as confused as he felt. He usually had a good grasp on that old ones. He knew all their names except for the one that had found Crowley first. It was a point of ire for him that he’d never been able to pull its true name from it. 

Ligur sneered, squinting out into the fog. “Out of all the Stars you could have gotten you just got the worst.”

  
  


Master Mos didn’t like the sound of that at all. “How so?”   
  
“Its an idiot. A foolish, weird thing.” Hastur snorted, shaking his head. “It doesn’t have a thought worth having.”

“Let me go kill the bookseller, Master.” Ligur suggested eagerly. “We got enough. Once he’s dead that one won’t have a purchase and go back.”

“It it really that useless?” Master Mos frowned, uncertain. Surely any power from the old ones was welcome. It was the first time he had ever heard the creatures that occupied Ligurs and Hasturs body make their thoughts so clearly known. 

“Not useless just….” Hastur hesitated, looking for the right words.

“Daft.” Ligur finished. “Seriously. Look at that landing. The Eldest One will hate having this faffing about.”

Master Mos thought it over for a moment. Well, pleasing the Eldest One was of utmost importance….

“Fine. Go kill the bookseller. Quickly. This night has already gone sideways enough.”   
  
He looked out again as the thing that had landed in his garden trilled a miserable little noise that sounded like someone pounding on the upper keys of a pipe organ. 

He was filled with a feeling of trepidation. 

“Go, Ligur. NOW.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something short because I plan on doing another for either this evening or tomorrow. :P


	16. Chapter 16

The dark pressed in on all sides as Aziraphale and Crowley crept their way through the narrow halls. Aziraphale was certain the walls were pressing in closer than they had been at the beginning, looming over them with God awful wallpaper choices. Crowley said the house was changing rapidly, doing all it could to ensure that those within would be confused and maddened, mentally weak and desperate enough to be taken by force or accept help from whatever creature offered it. 

The latter was...an intriguing idea. 

“What kind of help would such beasts offer, my dear?” He asked, keeping his voice low as to not attract any unwanted attention. 

“Depends,” the serpent answered warily, apparently not enjoying Aziraphale’s interest in the topic. “From what I can gather, they all got their shticks. Hastur was given power and reign over fire, Ligur can blend like fuckin’ chameleon, Beezelbub has swarms at her command….”   
  
“And you, my dear?” He asked lightly, curiously.

“Eh...well. My patron...well...it's complicated?” He dithered as he tried to come up with the easist answer. “When you opened the envelope at dinner you-uhm-saw, right? Through my eyes. I was little and, somehow, slipped through worlds right into its domain.”

Aziraphale had been trying to forget. It was invasive, he felt, to have everyone’s thoughts aired out and shared. He found it violating. They all knew about the aviary, about his mother, about...That Day. Everything he had put behind him was exposed and he had yet to deal with it. 

...he did remember Crowley’s vignette. He remembered feeling the fear as if it were his own. “It...it was surprised by you.”

“It was.” Crowley slithered a little ahead of him, peering around a corner with sharp eyes. “It didn’t want followers. It didn’t want to share power. It...it has never told me much about itself but I know it was very content just doing its own thing and going where it pleased as it pleased. Then, suddenly, there was this human kid in its temple bawlin’ its eyes out and screamin’ for its mum. I think it tried to ignore me for a bit, hoped I’d just go away.”

“You couldn’t, though,” Aziraphale hummed, coaxing him along.

“No. I couldn’t.” The snake sighed and flicked its tail, indicating that Aziraphale was to follow. “I came at the right moment...or the wrong one. It had lost a clutch, you see.”

“A clutch?” Echoed Aziraphale before understanding dawned on him. “Of eggs? It’s a female!”   
  
“Naw. Gender doesn’t mean a thing to it. It’s whatever it wants to be. Anyways, it apparently got the urge to try to reproduce and...well. Nothing came of it. Not one hatched. Then there was this human kid just there, begging to go back to his mum. It pitied me...but more than that it needed me. It failed and it wanted to do this one thing right...then things got out of hand.”   
  
Aziraphale waited. Crowley wasn’t done, he could feel it. Had he ever talked about this with anyone? 

“See, it just wanted to get me home. I think it thought that it would be able to just sit quietly inside me and wait until I aged out and died on my own. Time means nothing to it, afterall. What’s a few decades of looking through another’s eyes?” The snaked huffed and chuffed, laughing bitterly. “It didn’t realize I was in the Eldest Ones servants grasp. That I was now expected to serve The Cause. It started small...a bit of empathetic magic here and there. Then Master wanted to see something impressive...so it asked if I wanted to make a deal. I didn’t want to be fuckin’ beaten again so, well, I did. In exchange for the ability to do whatever magic I wanted when I wanted I lost my ability to taste. Everything but wine taste like ash.” 

Aziraphale gasped in horror. “All those times I took you out to eat you couldn’t taste any of it?!” 

Another laugh, less bitter and more genuine this time. “Jesus, Aziraphale. That’s your take away from all that?”   
  
“Food is an art, my dear!” Aziraphale huffed and straightened his waist coat. “You’ve been missing out on some on the scope of some of the finest meals!” 

The snake really did laugh then, louder than it should have. “If it’s any consolation, the wine has always been fantastic wherever we’ve gone.”   
  
“When we get out of here I’ll take you to the finest vineyards in the world, then.” Aziraphale smiled down at his serpent indulgently. “I’ll smuggle you in under my coat, if needed.” 

“I’m a bit large to smuggle.”

“I’ll buy one of those trench coats.” He shrugged, dismissing the concern. They’d work around it when the time came. Hell, he had a basement that was too cool for book storage but would be perfect as a wine cellar. If Crowley wanted fine wines he’d make it happen. “...is your current predicament because of a deal with your-um-patron?”   
  


“...yeh. Didn’t wanna burn alive, not when Warlock still needed help. Not when you were there.” Crowley murmured softly. “Didn’t have much left to give. I had my body, my sanity, and my heart. Needed my sanity to make sure I didn’t do somethin’ vile. Needed my heart so I’d still care. So...the body had to go.” 

“Crowley….” He breathed the name, heart breaking for him. How he wished to gather him up in his arms and tell him it was alright. That he was brave and good. That he loved him no matter what. Yet he did none of these things for fear of upsetting him rather than bringing comfort. He wasn’t even sure if it was still his place to do so, given how long they’d been apart. 

They travelled in silence for a time, each lost in their own thoughts and uncertainties. It was Crowley that finally breached it. “...Aziraphale...if...if I have to make another deal...um...what do you think I should give up?”   
  
“Oh! I-I don’t rightly know!” He fretted, wrung his hands as he considered the options. “If your-um-mind were to go you’d probably be quite mad, yes? I can’t fathom what that would be like but perhaps...perhaps you’d still be you? Just untethered? It would make it hard to plan anything, though. Yet if it was your heart would you even want to help? Perhaps you’d be cold and callous. You’d see the world destroyed simply because you had no stake in it...and...and...well...you wouldn’t love anymore, would you?” 

He was babbling, trying to come to grips with an impossible question. He loved every part of Crowley. He might as well have been asked what limb he would prefer to cut off for the difficulty of the choice. How could he pick Crowley’s wit over Crowley’s compassion? His brilliant conversations over his heartfelt confessions? 

The serpent must have picked up on his distress because it stopped and raised its head from the floor to stand tall and look him in the face. “Ssssorry,” he hissed, ashamed. “That wasn’t fair of me. I’m so sick of making impossible choices. I wish, for once, it was jussst...easssy. Stay in or go to the pub. The Savoy or The Ritz. You know. Mundane.”

Without thinking the action through, Aziraphale reached on and stroked the scales at his chin. “I wish I could take it away from you, my dearest one. I’d gladly make a deal on your behalf if it meant you’d be whole again.”

Crowley recoiled, hissing and damn near spitting, startling Aziraphale backwards. “Don’t sssssay that. Not here! Not now! You’ll invite ssssomething to you! They’ll ssssee that desssire and take advantage. No matter what, angel, you mussstn’t let some creature inside of you in exchange for anything!”   
  
A defiant reply of ‘I’ll do as I wish, Anthony Crowley, if it means your safety’ was forming on his lips, curling on his tongue, working its way up through his very soul when the door behind him swung open violently. 

He barely had time to react as unseen hands yanked him through the darkened portal. He gave a shout of alarm and was answered by Crowley hissing his name in confusion and rage before the door slammed shut again, separating them. Something pressed to his throat, tightening, cutting off his voice and his ability to breathe. 

“There, there now.” He knew the voice. The carriage driver. Ligur. Yet….he couldn’t see him. “Just relax. It’ll be over very quickly-”   
  
Aziraphales arms weren’t pinned andher certainly couldn’t “relax” as he was strangled. With a wide swing and a wild guess he aimed his fist-

-and found purchase in the air.

It had been some time since he shadow boxed, he mused as he scrambled to his feet.

He hoped he wasn’t too out of practice. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Warlock was lost. The path that Nanny had set him one, the one that should have allowed him to escape, had twisted and changed before his very eyes. He was no longer heading downwards but heading up at a steep angle that was exhausting to walk on. He was beginning to think that maybe he should just hunker down and wait for Nanny to find him. Surely he was just getting more and more lost by continuing to follow these random paths….

It was the noise that ultimately made his choice for him. It was somewhere behind him. A heavy, uneven, snuffling sound coupled with what might have been bells or keys knocking together and wheezing, whistling breaths. The sounds were drawing closer, echoing down the pitch black of the path he left behind.

He had just begun to scramble up the incline again when a voice, high pitched and chilling, echoed up from below.

“Little Fool, Fool! Come, come! I’m here, here. Don’t run, run.” It lilted, almost singing. “You want power, power? You need strength, strength? Embrace me, me! Be one, one.”   
  
Warlock had a feeling he most certainly didn’t want to be caught or embraced by whatever was following him in the darkness. With renewed vigor he began to climb faster. He was sure he could feel fresh air from above. An exit surely had to be near! 

Below him, the shambling footsteps picked up their pace.

The jangling, tinkling noises came closer.

Warlock screamed despite himself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_ It was dirty. It had never been dirty before. _

_ Every part of it was heavy. Gravity, it realized, was quite the force of reality. No wonder crawling and swimming things fared so well when they crossed over. For a glorious being, such as itself, even folding its wings in was a chore, let alone pushing with its hands and righting itself. It dug its talons in the soft earth to assist in balancing. _

_ The hardest part to lift was its neck. It was long, after all, and offset its balance terribly under these dreadful conditions. It fanned its tail to compensate, knocking vegetation over as it did so.  _

_ It was beginning to believe it had erred in coming through. Reality was such a troublesome thing. How did lesser creatures bear it? _

_ ...oh. It was not bound by reality. It had power it never needed to use.  _

_ With but a thought gravity lifted it from it, allowing it to assume a more natural position. There. Much better.  _

_ ...now what?  _

_ Everything was gray, a miasma that indicated a mass summoning from its home on the other side lay thick over the world it landed on. Interesting. So this was going to be the place they migrated to if the Eldest One got their way?  _

_ It hoped it was more interesting without the haze. Pretty nesting materials were a must.  _

_ Now, where was its friend? It could smell it all over the place, as if this had been its main home for a long time. It was coupled with another’s scent, one of those upright mammals, most likely their servant. Hm. Very entwined. Was its friend existing inside another? Perhaps that was the best way to get around in this world.  _

_ It was a technique that warranted consideration.  _

_ It would need the proper host, of course. A nice worshipper that would ferry it around willingly. Perhaps it could offer one of its swords in exchange? Or some power? Ugh. Sharing power with talking mammals. _

_ Ew. _

_ ...or not. The longer it sniffed the more one scent seemed to stick out. It liked this scent. It smelled like paper, tanned hides, ink, alcohol, sweet, savory…. _

_ It smelled like  _ ** _faith._ **

_ It smelled like  _ ** _hope._ **

_ It was intoxicating. _

_ It wanted it  _ ** _VERY BADLY. _ **

_ It drew itself up, spread its wings, ready to track the source...but then there was a noise. A strange sound that came from something with vocal chords. _

_ Oh. A scream! What kind of scream, though? It did not sound joyous or sad. _

_ Ah. Fear. Something was scared.  _

_ It did not like that.  _ ** _Fear kills hope, makes a mockery of faith. _ **

_ Another scream same voice. Young? A hatchling, maybe.  _

_ Shame.  _ ** _SHAME! _ **

_ It would see this right first. _

  
_ Then it would find the owner of that scent. _


	17. Chapter 17

_ The Beginning, according to Their kind, was nothing short of miraculous.  _

_ There existed Void. An emptiness without end. Neither dark nor light as such things did not exist. Nothing existed except Void and it was nothing. _

_ Then...Void became something. It had its first thought and in that moment Void was no longer nothing. It was something. _

_ Void moved and, since it was all that existed, existence moved as well.  _

_ Void moved again, differently, and Created Something Else.  _

_ The Eldest One came to be. _

_ Void ceased to be. It became  _ ** _MOTHER._ **

_ Mother birthed stars. Mother birthed minerals. Mother birthed gasses. Mother birthed dark and light. Mother birthed others like the Eldest One.  _

_ The Eldest One took the Others, made sure they knew it had been the first one. It put roles on them. It named some but the more Mother birthed, the less it named. It didn’t always like what Mother birthed.  _

_ The Eldest One sought  _ ** _CONTROL._ ** _ _

_ It told the Others that Mother needed to be guided. It formed them into ranks. Taught them how to use tooth, claw, hand, flame, water, gas, _ ** _ ALL_ ** _ to harm Mother. To harm others.  _

_ Mother left.  _

_ Mother drew the Veil close behind her.  _

_ Mother simplified and created something new.  _

_ Then Mother slept. _

_ The Eldest and the Others peered through the Veil greedily. Jealously.  _

_ Mother’s new creations were small. Mothers new creations were weak. Mothers new creations had something The Eldest one and the Others lacked and they  _ ** _WANTED_ ** _ the same way fire desires oxygen but destroys the kindling. _

_ They could whisper through the Veil. Sometimes press close enough to be seen.  _

_ Once or twice one would break through only to weaken until it found the right Host. The right worshipper. If the wrong one was picked they both perished. _

_ They became cautious.  _

_ The Eldest One moved steadily towards a goal it did not fully understand. All it knew was it  _ ** _WANTED._ **

** _IT WANTED._ **

** _IT WANTED._ **

** _IT WOULD HAVE._ **

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Beelzebub stood in a child’s bedroom in Tadfield. She was perplexed by what she had found. 

Firstly, no one seemed to be home. A note for the milk man indicated the owners were away in London for the weekend to deal with an emergency. There was no mention of the boy joining them.

Secondly, there was a crest on an envelope on the kitchen table. She knew it. It was the same boarding school Warlock attended. The letter inside was a progress report on one name Adam Young. The headmaster called him bright. The headmaster thought he was going to amount to something great.

The headmaster wished him well on his eleventh birthday and the holiday he would be taking at home with his parents. 

Now Beelzebub found herself striking upon the third point.

Thirdly, there was a creature that looked like a dog in the boys bedroom. It had fur and a tail and was cute...but its eyes were bright red and full of human understanding. It reeked of newness. It had been freshly created.

In its mouth was a note. 

The dog-beast gave it over willingly...then leaped from the second story window and ran into the breaking dawn with a speed unknown to any earthly creature. 

Beelzebub opened the letter. 

_ ‘Hello, _

_ I know what’s to be. _

_ I can’t say I like it. _

_ I think I’ll stop it. _

_ If you could not hinder me I’d appreciate it. _

_ Thank you very much. _

_ ~Adam. _

_ P.S. There’s biscuits in the left most cupboard. Flies like biscuit, right?’ _

Beelzebub did like biscuits. She hadn’t had one in many years. Crowley had brought her a tin back from Turkey and they had spoken about ‘what’s to be’ in furtive tones while drinking tea. 

They had agreed on some facts, back then. Facts she still agreed on but felt hopeless about. 

She didn’t feel quite so hopeless anymore.

...she went to the kitchen, sat at the table, and had a biscuit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aziraphale kept his back to the wall as that seemed the smartest thing one could do when fighting an invisible opponent. He was fairly certainly the door he had been dragged through had existed on this very same wall just a moment ago but now there was no sign of it. On the other side, he could hear his name being hissed and bellowed in frightened desperation along with thuds of something long and heavy throwing their weight against the plaster.

Poor Crowley. He was going to hurt himself if he kept that up! Best deal with this situation swiftly before his beloved did something poorly considered. 

The room he was in was a kitchen, he realized. A small one, most likely a servants galley. It seemed to be fully stocked and meticulously clean but that was an afterthought to what truly drew his eyes.

There was a kitchen door that seemed to lead outside into the thick, unwavering fog. 

He could bolt if he wished. Surely he was not so out of shape he couldn’t vault the island in the middle of the kitchen and barrel through the door! Then he’d need only find another entrance and return for Crowley and the others. 

...except his opponent was most certainly standing between him and the door. That was what made the most sense. Why else would there be such an easily identifiable exit if not to lure him?

No. This needed to be dealt with first. 

He couldn’t hear any tell tale signs of approach. Nothing in the kitchen swayed or moved to indicate where his would-be assassin lay. He’d need to reveal the beastly man in order to even the playing field. 

Aziraphale moved carefully along the wall, keeping his front out, towards the counters furthest from the exit. He was certain he could feel eyes on him, tracking his movement, waiting for a time to strike. He’d give them no such easy opening. 

Really. Invisibility. How unsporting. 

Good thing Aziraphale was not in a mood to take the high road.

The minute his fingers brushed the soft cloth of the sack he had spied in the dim light he knew he had found his unlikely savior. He gripped it hard, hefted the sack and brought it crashing down on the island. 

The explosion of flour as the sack split and spilled its contents was nothing short of fantastic. 

“What the fuck?!” Ligur was coughing, stumbling as the flour clung to him in patched, revealing him to Aziraphale. Apparently he had been waiting at the very edge of the center island. How fortuitous! 

Aziraphale wasted little time in pouncing. The first hit was his and it struck true to Ligurs nose with a cringe worthy crunch and a spill of blood that had the bookseller wincing in sympathy. Still, he followed up with a swift upper cut across the jaw. Sympathy had no place when one was fighting for their life!

Ligur reeled, snarled, and lunged at him with clawed fingers. With a single swipe Aziraphale found his favorite shirt tattered and his chest sporting four bloody gashes. 

“Oh there will be no washing that out,” he huffed angrily and dropped low, on to his knee, and delivered a punch that yielded a crack from the other man’s ribs and a pained cry from his lips.

Ligur recovered enough to grab his hair, dragging his claws across his scalp. More blood, this time flowing over his face,into his eyes, down the back of his neck. Heads tended to bleed quite a bit even under the slightest injury, he reminded himself. No need to panic. He was fine.

He proved just how fine he was by tackling Ligur about the hips and knocking the man to the floor. He straddled him quickly and let loose, pummeling until no more claws scraped at his ribs and outer thighs. By the time the man was limp and out cold Aziraphale found himself in quite the red mess. 

….Ligur looked much worse though, he supposed. 

Aziraphale pulled himself to his feet with a pained grunt, now fully able to appreciate just how much being torn apart by a man-lizard really, really hurt. Every gouge and gash burned, forcing a groan from him. The flour stuck to his wounds and the sticky blood on his face in the most sickening way. 

At least he was alive.

At least there was an exit. 

Crowley was still pounding at the wall, wordless and hissing. He needed to let the poor creature know he was quite alright, just in need of bandages-

There was a scream from beyond the kitchen door. A child scream, faint as if it came from a distance, and absolutely terrified. 

Aziraphale suddenly found himself in motion. First he threw himself to the wall. “Crowley! Crowley I’m alright, dear! Find a way outside! I’ll be there! Your dear Warlock is in trouble!”   
  
He didn’t stay to hear what his former lover had to say. Instead he bolted, ignoring the pain he was in, and threw himself out into the fog.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Warlock was hurt. The thing that stalked him had caught his leg and twisted it so hard that he could only limp and sob. He wasn’t going to die but...but he didn’t want this THING inside him. This cruel, laughing, mocking thing that was sing-songing to him as it followed him at a short distance. 

At about seven feet, it was tall. Its torso was short but its legs were thin and spidery, as were its inhumanly long arms and terrifying, spindly fingers. Its face was wrapped in dark blue bandages, leaving it impossibly wide mouth and sickly blue, thin lips exposed. The rest o f its body was wrapped in pouches that jingled and clanked in unpleasant ways as it loped forward. 

_ “My little fool, fool. Tis time, time! You can no longer run, run. No one will help, help. Together we will be powerful, powerful. We will dominate in the new order, order.” _ It extended its long arm and caught him by his good leg, dragging him off his feet. 

Warlock crawled, sobbing, hyperventilating. 

_ “Come, come. Fool, fool. Make a deal, deal. Anything you want, want. All you need give is body, body. You won’t notice the change, change. It will be like you and I were always together, together.” _

The fog was thick. Warlock didn’t see the broad tree trunk until he was already butting against it. He flattened his back to it and gripped the exposed roots in terror. This was it, he realized. He was about to become something else. He’d been so ready, earlier, to have a patron but...but this foul creature was not what he envisioned. He wanted something more like what Nanny had. Something strong and protective, not cruel and gross. 

The creature stopped a few feet from him, it arm already extended, fingers splayed and ready to take. Its head was tilted up, wide mouth agape. 

Behind Warlock, the tree trunk shuddered. With dawning horror, he realized that what he thought were roots were long, thick toes attached to particularly sharp looking talons. He looked back at the thick, tall leg he was leaning into...then he looked up.

It was hard to see. The fog was so thick that seeing anything beyond a few feet was nigh impossible, doubly so if the thing one was looking at happened to be snowy white, which this creature was. It was huge. Bigger than the elephants at the zoo. Bigger than the houses in the nearest village. 

The leg moved, lifting slow, and dropped again in front of Warlock before pushing back, forcing him further in under it. 

_ “Wait, wait!” _ The one stalking him screeched. “ _ That’s mine, mine! That’s a Fool, not a Star, star! IT’S MINE, mine!” _

There was a pause and the creature he was under shifted until a long graceful neck bowed from the heavens and a head that sported no visible mouth or nose or eyes was level with him.

Then there were eyes. All opening at once, all across the empty head like a crown, lining the long neck like rings, across the visible spectrum of its chest and it belly over head. Eyes of molten gold, all of them looking at him.

He could only look back with wide eyes.

There was a question going unsaid, spoken through direct eye contact.  _ What do you want? _

Warlock gasped and sobbed. “To be free,” he answered impulsively, truthfully. “To be me.”

The eyes blinked...and reopened black. The neck and ‘face’ pulled away.

The noise the creature made before it lunged at his stalker was one of a million war trumpets being blown at once. 

Then there was ** FIRE. **

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Inside the estate a frantic snake stilled as a thunderous noise penetrated the walls.

Crowley didn’t understand. Why had he stopped trying to find Aziraphale? Why couldn’t he move his own body?

A voice inside him hissed softly, wondrously.

** _“Cygnet!”_ **

Then they were moving again with a desperation and joy that Crowley didn’t have time to understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll be checking in on the others soon. Shit is going crazy, man.


	18. Chapter 18

They were not a warrior, despite what their fangs may have indicated to others. When they fought it was only because they saw no other solution. They preferred their deceptions, their misdirections. It was an art form they excelled in but was woefully underappreciated. The Eldest One had no need for slithering swindlers. 

After Mother left they wandered. They had been soured on their own kind, wishing to have as little interaction with them or The Eldest One as possible. They did not want to be one of those that drove themselves mad peering through the Veil, craving what they could not have, jealously guarding their earthly temples in hopes of stray worshippers.

They much preferred to find a fine, steady asteroid orbiting a cozy star and nap. 

So they did. 

They were snug and warm when they heard a song. It was pretty and frivolous, the kind of song one sang when trying to occupy their time. They peeped from between their mass of coils, ready to hiss a warning at whatever creature had strayed too close to their home. 

It was feathered and graceful, white as a comet's tail, and intimidatingly large. It didn’t notice them as it began rummaging through the asteroid belt, mining shiny stones and bits of sparkly dust. It cooed and purred in ways that prickled their scales pleasantly. 

Then, with a beat of its massive wings, it was gone. 

They felt oddly bereft. Went back to sleep.

The second time it was much closer and stayed longer. It had found a silver vein in one of the space rocks and was now extracting it with deft hands that extruded from its chest and the talons on its feet. Again, they watched from their spot, blending perfectly with the black of space. They liked this creature. It was pretty. Gorgeous. Beautiful. 

Terrifying.

It left too soon. This time they used their power to put gold in the asteroid closest to it. They wanted to see it closer, bask in its songs. 

It came back some time later, trilling with delight as they discovered the deposit, and set to work. 

_ They uncoiled from the darkness. “Ssssuch a beauty desssservesss all the richesss in the universsse.” _

_ It startled, tail fanning out behind it and rattling its quills, head ducked low, wings spread defensively. The sound it made was discordant. Many eyes opened, black as obsidian, and stared them down.  _

_ Oh. This was a warrior. _

_ This was a STAR. _

_ “Relax. We’re not here to fight. We were jussst napping.” _ _   
_ _   
_ __ Black eyes faded to silver. That graceful neck rose up, looking at them more directly with that crown of eyes. 

_ “Do you have a name?” They asked with a dispassion they truly did not feel. They did not want to fight this creature. They had seen what they did with the silver and gold. It’s insides were an armory. _

_ They could easily be skewered by the blades it contained. _

_ It didn’t reply. It didn’t have words. It wasn’t built in a way they produced language. Its eyes flashed gold...and drew close. They could feel its embarrassment. It had never been understood.  _

_ They wanted nothing more than to understand.  _

_ “...sssCygnet then.” Its featureless head tilted just so. “We mussst call you sssomething if we are to be friendsss.” _ _   
_ _   
_ __ All those eyes opened again, bright blue, wondrous. 

_ They hissed a laugh, a strange feeling bubbling up inside them. They did not have a word for the emotion, yet. “Gloriousss sssCygnet. Look how you shine!” _ _   
_ _   
_ __ It preened prettily, strummed a solo in its throat. 

_ They knew they would say anything to make it do that again. _

_ Cygnet looked down on them and they could feel the question, hear it in their soul. Who are you? _

_ They had a name. They were not fond of it.  _

_ Yet…. _

_ “Eden,” they hissed softly, confessing what they had not told anyone since their creation. “We are Eden.” _

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was a well kept, brightly lit library at the bottom of the stairs. Madame Tracey immediately thought of Aziraphale as she realized the true scope of the collection. He would have given his right arm to stand where she was standing and have forgotten all about the imminent danger they were all in to lavish his attention on the leather bound spines. 

He’d have also thoroughly disapproved of the standing basin of dark water that inhabited the center of the room. Too much moisture. Even she knew that and she had never been overly fond of reading. 

Shadwell whistled, long and low, as he looked up at the shelves that lined nearly every inch of the circular room. “Wee bit’o readin’ here.”

Madame Tracey laughed. “Yes. I think I could read for the rest of my life and never finish them all.”

“I haven’t read a full book in many a-year. M’eyes are right burned out. Words have nair shape anymore,” the old witch hunter rambled as he squinted at the titles, as if illustrating his point. “It’s a shame. I used t’be right into researchin’ occult happenings.”   
  
The medium nodded sympathetically. She could see it, strangely. He didn’t present himself as an intellectual, and perhaps he wasn’t, but she reckoned he was wickedly dedicated to his occupation. She could picture him hunched over a desk, calloused finger underlining sentences as he read about the witches and devils of old. 

It was a rather fetching image. 

She began to wander, drawing closer to the large pool that sat in the middle of the vast library. “Are there many witch hunters left?” She asked as she peered into the dark, fathomless depths.She could smell the brine of the ocean. This structure no doubt connect to the sea that the estate bordered. 

“Eh...not really. No.” Shadwell cleared his throat uncomfortably. “One, by my count.”   
  
She looked up at him in surprise. “Just you?!”

“Aye,” he heaved a heavy sigh, letting his crossbow drop a few inches. “It’s a nae a big business, witch huntin’. Once the old guard dies findin’ young blood becomes hard. I’ll be the last.” 

Madame Tracey frowned and took a step away from the pool. “I’m so sorry.”   
  
Sergeant Shadwell smirked grimly. “A few days ago I’d’ve told yeh t’nae be. That me bein’ the last meant that evil was rare.” He paused, looking around. “...I was wrong, though.”   
  
She reached for him, wanting nothing more than to offer a brief moment of physical comfort, but a ripple in the water drew her attention. Curious, she took a half step forward. 

It was about this time what sounded like a trumpets herald blasted somewhere above their heads. The noise had barely died down when the water bubbled upwards and a figure, sharp toothed, fish scaled, and clothed in water rotted scraps, pulled itself to the edge. 

“Who let the bird through?!” She shrieked to the ceiling in alarm, words slurred by the length of her own teeth. Then her watery, fierce gaze snapped toward them. “Who the hell are you two?!”

Shadwell and Madame Tracey both screamed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Newt, dragging Anathema with him, recoiled against the wall as a wave of noise shook the floor they stood upon. Anathema struggled briefly in his loose hold but the racket was too much. Even after it had tapered off it left her ears ringing and her balance precariously off kilter. 

They supported each other for a moment, her gripping Newtons arm and he gripping the wall. 

“...I think someone shot an orchestra,” Newt murmured wryly after a time.

“Or something,” Anathema supplied, at a loss for what had just happened. That hadn’t been an earthly noise. “I think-”

She quickly forgot what she was thinking as  _ something _ snagged her painfully around the waist and whipped her from Newts arms. She didn’t have time to do much more than yelp as she was dragged on her stomach, glasses knocked off and dress rucked up, down the dark hallways at a breakneck speed. 

Newton was calling after her. His voice never strayed too far no matter the distance she was dragged. He was giving chase.

She barely noticed for a voice was speaking in her head. _ “The time is now! The time has come! Prophetess, it is your lucky day!” _

She did not feel lucky.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gabriel stood still and listened to the bellow. 

It was not the voice of God but it had Her energy. It was so frightfully similar that, for a moment, he had doubts. The hiss in the darkness had said something about the voice he was hearing not being who he thought it was. What if…?

**Doubt is poison, Gabriel. The enemy of strength and conviction. **

God was right. He could not let this small thing worm its way inside his soul.

**I am near, Gabriel. Move higher. Move higher! **

Gabriel clenched his fists, heart racing, and sought a staircase that brought him higher. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Warlock took cover behind a low wall. A part of him screamed to duck his head and close his eyes tight but he just couldn’t, not when something so extraordinary was happening feet away from him. 

The bird like monster was circling the much, much smaller creature that had been stalking him. Its many eyes were still black as soot, its tail fanned in a way not dissimilar to a peacock, and fire danced in the quills of its feathers. It dwarfed the other creature yet the smaller seemed ready to fight, not intimidated by it all. 

Its long arm whipped out, pouches jangling sinisterly, and earned a small nick on the wing and a few downy feathers for its effort.

Many black eyes narrowed. When it charged the ground shook beneath its three toed feet and its entire soft looking body rammed into the smaller creature before igniting in flame-

A hand touched Warlocks arm and he yelled out in alarm, swinging around, ready for a fight.

It was the man in white. Aziraphale. He was quite a sight, bloodied, torn, and covered in white powder. Warlock let himself relax. This man wasn’t a threat to him. 

He also wasn’t looking at him, his jaw dropped open and blue eyes wide as he stared ahead at the battle happening behind Warlocks back. 

He pulled on his arm. “Mister Aziraphale, you should duck!”

“Duck?” He echoed faintly, barely heard above another blast of noise and the sizzling roar of flames. “More of a swan or peacock, I think. Wings are short though. Like a doves.”   
  
Warlock did not have time to unpack the stunned expression on the mans face and pulled more insistently. “I don’t think it follows any known phylum structure, sir.”

“Hm? Oh. I suppose not.” The man allowed himself to be pulled down to his knees but his eyes never left the action. “Who are we rooting for?”   
  
“What?” Warlock asked, baffled.

Aziraphale didn’t seem to hear him. “The small one has a speed advantage...but the large one is very sure footed. Its fought before. See how it never offers it back? Every move it takes keeps it just out of reach….”   
  
Warlock was starting to get the feeling something was quite wrong. “Sir?”   
  
“Oh. I think I understand it. About patrons.” Aziraphale murmured, some epiphany lighting up his expression. He stood again, slipping from the boys grasp. It didn’t take much effort for him to clamber over the wall.

“Wait!” Warlock cried out, confused and alarmed. “What are you doing?!”

Aziraphale laughed, a little drunkenly. For a moment Warlock wondered if maybe he had been hit on the head. Or maybe it was blood loss? He seemed to be bleeding quite a bit.

“I think...I am about to become an aviary,” the dazed man chuckled and wandered closer without hesitation.

Warlock wasted little time in following.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dagon: WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY SWAMP.
> 
> Shadwell and Tracey: [shreked]


	19. Chapter 19

This creature was a fool, quite literally. A Fool arcana that was picking a fight well beyond it. If they had any sense they would have slunk away as soon as it had trumpetted. The mammal hatchling could do much better if it wanted a patron. It knew better Fool’s, ones that were strong and truly embodied the name. This one was a frail, abusive thing that sought to dominate through terror. 

This Fool was barely fit to eat...but it had been a while since it had a morsel. Since Mother left, at least. Since the Eldest One begrudgingly announced there would be no more fighting among themselves until the Veil was dealt with.

...the Veil was dealt with now, yes? The meant the buffet was open, if it so chose.

It also may need the power, it reasoned. The Eldest One was not fond of it, after all.

The battle was growing dull. This Fool seemed to have one technique and one technique alone, which was claw and run. There were toxins in their claws but that meant little to it. When one had a several eon long friendship with a fanged creature one tended to build a tolerance to such chemicals.

Its friend would bite at times, when it was overcome. It understood. It had a lot of light and its friend had a lot of dark. It was hard to get the balance right so they could both indulge each other. Accidents would happen.

Never one to play with its food, it moved to end this pathetic excuse of a battle. 

It pinned the Fool beneath its foot, crushing it to the ground. It clawed and scraped, screaming in their native tongue. It didn’t deign to hear it. These were death throes, not thoughts worth listening too.

It opened its maw for the first time in millenia. The fissure started just below its neck and continued to split downwards across its breast bone and ribs. Its maw spread wide, gaping and full of hundreds of thousands of swords, all pointing blade up. 

The Fool screamed out.

It hated the cowardly, faithless noise. It would see it ceased.

It lowered in a flash, snapping the insignificant arcana up and closing around it like an iron maiden.

The screaming stopped. The power diffused into its very being in a familiar, dizzying way.

It tasted awful. Nothing sweet or savory about it. Just...gross. 

It took a moment to gather itself. Coming down off a battle high was hard and returning to some semblance of dignified sanity after devouring another? It was a struggle. 

When it finally became aware of its surroundings again it noticed first the hatchling. They were safe, if not a tad disturbed.

Then...there was the Other. Bloodied and reeking from a recent battle. A recent victory.

The scent that had drawn it, the one aside from Edens own, wafted from this mammal in waves. Enticing it. Drawing all of its attention down to this one small creature.

The mammal spoke.

It listened.

~~~

“I wish you two would’ve wandered elsewhere,” Dagon, the creature that had emerged from the pool, said as she placed a tarnished, silver comb in her seaweed hair. “If one of my brethren tracks you down here they’ll have no regard for my research or the masters collection.”

A webbed fingered hand waved casually. Two delicately painted cups filled with steaming, earl grey tea appeared on the small, age worn table that Madame Tracey and Sargent Shadwell were sitting awkwardly around. Neither one of them had the stomach to refuse the wet woman’s hospitality.

Well, Shadwell had tried. Madame Tracey, however, thought it best the did not unnecessarily upset the strange woman, no matter how fishy she smell or how little she blinked. Luckily, Madame Tracey was an expert in finding the best in people...or monsters. 

“It’s quite the lovely collection, Miss Dagon,” she complimented sweetly, taking a delicate sip from her cup without a trace of hesitation. “You must be very proud.”   
  
The praise was met with a weary look. “...I am. It’s all I have. Can’t exist in the outside world...can’t go back to the Outer.”   
  
“The Outer?” Shadwell asked, his tea untouched. 

“Where the others come from. Where I came from.” Dagon paused a moment, glancing at the clock. “Or where a large part of me came from. This body is from here. The consciousness has long given up which is...irritating. She had been quite understanding, even as she grieved the loss of her own life….”

Madame Tracey felt the stab of grief like an arrow to her chest. “...the...the woman you took. She was your friend?”   
  
“Oh no.” Dagon laughed, flashing dangerous teeth their direction. “I was forced to be her patron and she was forced to be my host. Such a union could never be friendly. Choice is important, though the Eldest One and the Master don’t appreciate that. We were...allies in despair.”   
  
“Better that than bein’ lonely, eh?” Shadwell huffed, studying her keenly as he finally brought the cup to his lips and took a tiny, tentative sip. 

“Yes...though I have been fortunate.” Dagon hummed, shrugging, and waved to a pillar in the massive room that was decorated with yellowing spelling lessons and crumbling drawings done in wax crayon. “The Master has required tutors the past few decades.”

Madame Tracey did the polite thing then and directed her attention to the pillar, taking her cup of tea with her. The pillar was stacked full of pinned, soggy drawings and assignments. Black charcoal drawings of Dagon with smaller teeth and less scales signed with a shaky, backwards ‘B’, bombastic explosions of colors and flowers with ‘ANTHONY’ scrawled at the bottom in capital letters that begged to be looked at, and more contained, observant drawings of simple objects that went unsigned. 

“It seems you’ve had wonderful students,” Madame Tracey turned back with a smile only to find Dagon had dragged herself over to one of the shelves and was plucking a book with the pointed determination of a person who was packing for a trip. 

“I have. One of them should be stopping by any moment now. Serpent in flames and all that.” She opened the green, leather bound book as if to confirm her statement. “Oh. Watch the door.”   
  
They had no chance to process this directive before the double doors on the far side of the room were blown off the hinges in a shower of blackish-purple flame. Dagon sighed deeply, took a pen from her tattered clothing, and quickly scribbled something in the book. “Nutter strikes again.”   
  
In the doorway stood what could have been a portly, hunched back man cloaked in rough, canvas robes. In his hands was clutched a wooden staff wreathed in the same flames that had blown the door wide open. The interior of his raised hood was black and empty as a starless night. 

A trembling, frail looking hand released the death grip it had on the staff and pointed. “You. I have. What you. Need.”   
  
Shadwell quickly realized that he was the one being addressed and stood, crossbow at the ready. “I doubt that foul fiend!”

The creature hobbled forward yet seemed to cover a few feet of distance while only taking one step. “Hermit. You. And I. You are old. You are sick. I am eternal. I am health. Together. As one. We survive. The coming. Storm.”

Madame Tracey swept across the room, standing at Shadwells side, and took the man’s arm. “We were just having the most wonderful conversation with Miss Dagon about choice. If Mr. Shadwell says you have nothing to offer-”   
  
“Do you want. This woman?” The creature asked, speaking over her. “Do you want. Youth? Show her. Your former. Good looks? Come to me. I will give it.”   
  
“Why would I want a harlot?!” Shadwell blustered, flushing an unhealthy shade of puce. He said nothing of the temptation of youth. Madame Tracey didn’t miss the slight, uncertain droop of the crossbow.

“I will give. Power. Witchfinder General. Speak and. Recruits will. Come. Your legacy. Right now. Is NONE. With me? It is. LASTING.”   
  
The crossbow was dropped another notch, uncertainty knitting at the old man’s brow. Madame Traceys heart began to sink. He’d accept. She had seen his past in the dining room, the way his family perished, how he owed his life to the Witchfinder Army. 

He’d accept for their sake if not his own-

What happened next was too much to process. There was a hissing noise from behind the Hermit. Another explosion of black flame as the staff was swung back. Fangs. Yellow eyes. A yell in a language that nauseating to hear and impossible for human ears to decypher. The snap of a jaw as it closed around the head and shoulders of the Hermit. A muffled scream of rage and terror. 

Then the wet, sickening sound of gulping and crunching bones. 

“Right on time, Anthony,” Dagon murmured, passing between a gaping Shadwell and a frightfully pale Madame Tracey. The book she had been holding was carefully slipped into the latter’s arms as if it belonged there. “A shame about this new body, though. You had such lovely hair.”   
  
The snake whipped past without a greeting, slitted pupils so thin and wild they were barely seen in the pools of yellow. Dagon took an uncertain, half step back. “...you’re not Anthony. Oh...oh the poor boy. Did he...is he…?” She pressed a webbed hand to her chest, as if pained by her own unspoken question. “...is he gone? Has he been eclipsed?”

The snake gave no answer, slithering directly towards the pool in the center of the room.

Dagon shambled forward in alarm. “Wait! It’s icy cold and deeper than you can imagine! Not the exit you want!” 

Once again, the snake paid her no heed, diving head first into the dark, salty water without so much as a glance back. It slipped in so smoothly it left no ripples in its wake. 

Dagon huffed...then turned to Madame Tracey with a tight smile. “It was lovely having company. I hope we never meet again. Be a dear and see that book gets back to its rightful owner, will you?” 

She gave a rough curtsy...then took a running leap into the dark water, following the great serpent into the depths. 

Madame Tracey stood still and overwhelmed for a long moment afterwards, listening to the drip of water and the unsteady breathing of the man next to her. Finally, she dared to look at the volume in her hands. 

‘The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch.’

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aziraphale felt like he should bow, so he did.

He did not expect the feathered creature to shut all of its watching eyes, stoop, bring its long neck low, and bow in return. 

That was a promising start. He hoped so, anyways.

“Do you understand me?” He asked as he straightened himself back out.

The creature seemed to tilt its featureless head in confusion. He supposed it made sense for there to be a language barrier. 

It was obviously intelligent. It could fight with aplomb and had seen fit to defend Warlock. It produced beautiful music from somewhere deep within itself. 

Even the gaping maw full of shiny, bright swords was not as horrifying as he thought it ought to be. He was drawn to this creature. Hypnotized by its very existence. It should have been deeply alarming.

It was not. 

He didn’t realize he was reaching towards it until he heard Warlock calling his name. It didn’t stop him from continuing to reach. “You...can make deals, yes? Do impossible things in exchange for something? Perform miracles?”   
  
The creature tilted its head again, edging its head closer to him as if drawn in the same way he was. 

“I need a miracle,” Aziraphale whispered unthinkingly, as if in a confessional. “He doesn’t have a body to hold. Lips to kiss. He’s suffered terribly for the sake of others. I’d...I’d like to alleviate the burden.”   
  
The creature seemed to understand something about him. It felt like he was being seen, despite it having closed its many eyes. It thrummed a song deep in its throat, one that sounded like the lonely stroking of a violin, filled with need and craving and a devastating amount of hope. 

Aziraphale understood the song perfectly. He’d been holding a similar tune inside of him for many years. Perhaps his entire life.

He took a deliberate, confident step forward.

It was time to earn the wings he always wanted.

Finally!

Finally. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eden plunged into freezing depths, single minded in their mission. 

Cygnet was here! On this plane! 

They needed to get to it before some other nasty piece of work did. Cygnet was not liked among their kind. Cygnet had refused the Eldest One not once but twice. The first time it had denied the Eldest One a flaming sword, putting it instead in the hands of Mother, allowing her to escape. The second time...the second time Cygnet denied the Eldest One a sword to pierce the Veil.

That Cygnet continued to live after such brazen acts was nothing short of miraculous. Eden suspected the only thing protecting its friend was the Veil itself. No use in killing perfectly good creatures when there were so few of them left and no way to create more without Mother. 

...now that the Veil was tearing, though….

Eden needed to get to Cygnet. To stay with it. To protect it. Save it. Coil around its neck like a scarf and-

‘You do know I’m getting all that, right?’ Anthony J. Crowley spoke inside their head, sounding quite cross. ‘Didn’t know you had someone so important to you.’

Eden didn’t respond. They were ashamed of their own actions. They had promised they would never stamp out their hosts consciousness. It had no plans to but...but Cygnet made them crazy. They would cede control back to Anthony J. Crowley just as soon as-

The murky depths seemed to get darker, the water more frigid. Strange. They were born into a void that lacked heat or light, this should not have been as bothersome as it was.

They were losing speed. Their legs were tired.

Legs?

Yes. Those were legs behind them! Their tail was gone! 

They reached, near blind, into the dark. Hands. They had hands. Hair, hips, chest. 

Their lungs were burning.

‘Oh hell! I thought you said once I changed it would be irreversible?!’ Anthony J. Crowley was loud, panicked. 

They couldn’t blame him. They were beginning to panic as well.

_ It sssshould have been! There’sss no reasssson-! _

‘Go back! Go back to the library! We’re fuckin’ drowning!’

They were. Both of them. 

They kicked at the water blindly, trying to find the way but up and down were hard to differentiate. They scraped a wall, knocked their head hard against another.

Their lungs felt as if they might explode.

The flailing of limbs became uncontrollable as they floundered, a deep seated animal instinct that was built into the very marrow of every human body taking hold. 

They were going to die.

They had just doomed Anthony J. Crowley. 

‘Not like this…,’ he was moaning, whimpering, over and over again. Anthony J. Crowley did not wish to die as he had when he was a teenager and young man. There were thoughts flashing through his mind, settling the longest on white hair, blue eyes.

_ White feathers, many eyes. _

They gasped, unable to hold back the instinct any longer. Water replaced air. 

Everything...was….

...was....

...was….

….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....


	20. Chapter 20

_ His mobile was the spinning orbit of galaxies. _ ** _ MOTHER_ ** _ had created it for him. She’d whisper lullabies with no beginning or end in his ear and he would lay in her lap, watching the stardust spin and wondering how he could have thought, form, function yet those dancing motes of creation did not…. _

It occurred to Aziraphale that these were not his own thoughts but, as soon as he tried to look at the memory directly, it slipped through his fingers. He didn’t try to chase the memory. Instead he allowed himself to drift and settle in a church yard. He was laying behind the holly bushes, their sharp leaves scraping his cheek. He dared not move. If he moved Mother or Mrs. Pottle would find him and he would have to go home before getting to play with his friends….

Adults were talking, unaware of him. “I saw ‘em with me own two eyes! Snoggin’ behind the juniper!”

“No wonder ‘er man ran off just as soon as the boy was born. Shameful, is what it is. Them Fell’s is a blight.”

“I heard he didn’t leave with a mistress. She didn’t report him missing until the foundation went in for that giant bird cage-”

“-aviary. It’s called an aviary. Saw one in London a few years back.”

“Hush now! My point was that...well...no one has seen him since the concrete went in. I’d put money on him festering-”

There was a flutter. A dove was peeping at him through the gaps in the bushes. Or...he assumed it was.  _ It had no eyes. He should have been frightened. He wasn’t.  _

_ “-festering like the others. It sticks out. It shines too bright. Someone should go and tarnish it. It doesn’t belong here.” _ _   
_ _   
_ __ “Stars are a blight. What is hope anyways? What is faith?!”

_ “Dunno, dunno. Apparently it comes with steel and fire. It comes on a song.” _

_ “A wordless one.” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Only because  _ ** _MOTHER_ ** __ told It not to speak. Wonder what secret she gave in exchange for that sword….”

He sat up as the ground grew cold beneath his back. The sky was dark and full of billions of points of light set in velvet blackness. If he reached far enough he could probably touch them….

As he watched the black of space blinked, revealing the dark gaps to be a billion eyes looking down on him.  **He was seen.** Every part of him was vulnerable, on display.  **HE WAS SEEN. **

The black reopened, wider than before, blotting out the twinkling white of the stars. One giant eye looking down and around. Its owner sighed and shook. It began to rain but it was fine.

He had a white umbrella in his hand. He opened it was a dramatic gesture that carried the scent of tobacco past him….

There was a man. Red hair.  _ Black scaled. _ Thin and angled. _ Smooth and sinuous. _ Eyes as yellow as wild honey  _ with black, ovular pupils that reflected the light perfectly. _ He was smoking as his long fingers  _ worked effortless magic, producing color and light…. _

The umbrella was thrust his way, sheltering him from the rain.  _ A fanged smile pulled at thin lips.  _ His heart beat faster. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“I’d like that,” _the snake murmured._ No. The man murmured? Wait...what was happening? “You got a name?”  
  
“Ezra Fell.” No, no, no, that wasn’t right! “I mean, Aziraphale! Aziraphale. I’m Aziraphale!”  
  
The man tilted his head,_ his scales bristled prettily._ _“Cygnet?”_  
  
“Yes. No. Yes?” He didn’t understand what was happening. He was lost. 

The other said his name. Crowley.  _ Eden. _ Both. Neither? 

“Lead the way, angel….”

_ Yes. He was an angel. He had wings. He had fire in the quills. If he wanted he could open his maw all the way up and swallow the serpent down, keep them all to itself…. _

“Please, stay with me.” He didn’t say it. He was on the steps of the Ritz and couldn’t remember how to speak. 

_ They were leaving. They had something important to do. Something they needed to do. It couldn’t be selfish about this. Eden was not some bauble to be collected and hoarded in its nest. They needed to go. They would explain later.  _

_ This was its fault. It scared them, just like it scared the others. They had mingled their essences, found a balance, but not they saw it for the useless, silly thing it always had been and they were leaving.  _

Crowley knew Aziraphale had nothing to offer. He was a weight on him. To love him was to be out cast in countless ways. That’s why he never came back. He’d been Too Much and now he’d lost the only one he’d ever loved. 

_ Love? ...yes. Not friend. They were Its Love. That was a much better description for them. Lovers. Were they THE Lovers? They might have been...but Eden left.  _

Just like  **MOTHER. **

“Ezra.” He looked up and she was standing on the firmament. Radiant and indescribable.  _ Mother had a broken sword in her hands, its flames flickered weakly. Around her neck was gold, tied to the veil. _

“Be good.  ** _Be GOOD. Be good. NEVER TELL.”_ **

She dropped... _ and the Veil pulled up like theater curtains.  _

_ It sang a dirge. _

He screamed. 

_ The Eldest One was there, in the wings, and they were furious. _

Aziraphale’s world went dark.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Warlock wasn’t sure what had happened. He was certain he hadn’t passed out or even blinked yet the the scenery changed between one breath and the other. He was still in the same place. He hadn’t moved. Yet...yet there was no longer a large bird creature occupying the space in front of him. 

It had blinked from existence the minute Mister Aziraphale had touched it. Warlock had expected something far more glittery and foreboding. This was quiet and suddenly, like nitrogen mingling with oxygen. A natural thing that took no effort. It simply...happened.

Mister Aziraphale was no different than he had been a moment ago. He was still bloody, covered in flour, with his waist coat partially open, bow tie askew, and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was a bit paler than he had been, though it was hard to tell on account of all the flour, and his eyes were closed.

He was slowly swaying, as if listening to some unheard tune.

“Uhm-” Started Warlock, looking around at the thick fog. Should he leave him? It didn’t feel right to do so but who knew what creatures were creeping about unseen. He should hide...but he couldn’t. Not alone. “Mister Aziraphale…?”

A shuddery breath was released from the adult, followed by a gasping inhalation that suggested the man had been holding his breath or forgotten how to breathe. Bright blue eyes turned to him.

He could have sworn there was gold in the pupils. If there was sunlight it would probably be more apparent, swirls of glistening yellow gold in pools of black. 

Aziraphale took an awkward looking step forward, as if he was used to having much longer legs.When he reached out towards Warlock he paused, brows knitting as he looked at his own hand in queer manner. He wiggled his fingers, eye brows shooting up with some unspoken revelation.

As Warlock watched the man began to pat down his body with careful precision, leaving barely an inch unexplored as he felt along his calves and thighs, pulling his own hair, running his tongue over his teeth….

Warlock was beginning to suspect Mister Aziraphale was not himself. 

Finally, he seemed to remember Warlock again and flashed an embarrassed, uncertain smile. He opened his mouth and made a noise that sounded like the beginning of a word but soon stopped as he heard himself, clapping his hands over his mouth, eyes wide as if he just frightened the life out of himself.

Oh. What would Nanny do? 

Probably something weird.

Something bold. 

“What? Cat got your tongue?” Warlock crossed his arms over his chest and grinned. “Come on. I don’t speak charades.”

The creature wearing Mister Aziraphale body blinked and slowly pulled his hands from his mouth. He swallowed, cleared his throat. “Uhm-” another wince of fear and a furtive glance around. Whatever retribution was expected never came so he continued cautiously. “I...I did not...uhm...mean to.”

“Mean to what?” Warlock coaxed, curious.

In response the man-shaped creature waved a hand over himself. “This. I am...small? I...I...I have never been small!”

“Well...my Nanny once told me souls can be as big as the world with an endless capacity for change. So...maybe you’re just physically small right now? You’re bigger on the inside?” Warlock hoped that was vaguely reassuring. They looked like they needed some guidance, afterall.

It was strange, offering advice to something that looked like an adult.

Said adult smiled, tilting their head slightly. “I know those words.”

“You do?” Perhaps Nanny had been quoting someone.

“Yes. M-my Eden!” Something bright and hopeful ignited like fire in those blue eyes, the gold at the pupil becoming more noticeable. “D-do you know them? My Eden?”

Warlock was starting to have a sneaking suspicion that perhaps he did, if not indirectly. “Maybe? What do they look like?”   
  
“...look like?” He laughed, as if asked a strange question. “Uhm...I guess...they...hm. Long? Black? Red? And...uhm….”   
  
The creature in Aziraphale’s body struggled. “T-terribly s-sorry. I see...I see them as they are. Many eyes, many ways to see. I do not know which way you see.”

“...would one of those ways be kinda...snakey?” He asked, waving his arm in some loose approximation of a serpent.

The effect was immediate, the gold in his pupil was all encompassing of the black. “Yes! Like that! The wiggle!” Then it was gone, shrinking down himself as he realized how loud he was being. 

Warlock held out his hand. “C’mon. We gotta find the house.”

After a moment of hesitation, the thing that was once Mister Aziraphale took his hand.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A hand was on his chest, pressing, squeezing liquid out.

“Come now, Anthony. Follow my voice.” 

Crowley knew the water logged voice well. It had taught him almost all he knew. Everything from literature to arithmetic to occult history. The only one that had taught him more was his own mother and the Thing inside him.

“Your patron has expended a great deal to keep you alive. It will need to rest. This part is on you.”

What was he being asked to do, exactly? He was dead. Drowned. All he could feel was the bite of cold and distant hazy connection to life. His lungs didn’t want to refill.

“Hmm...did you know, I’ve felt a Fool die this day? I don’t know if it had yet become a patron to a host but-”

A Fool. Warlock was a Fool. Not literally but-but-!

He coughed, throat and sinuses burning. He couldn’t get air in because of all the blasted choking and snivelling he was doing. 

That webbed hand eased him to his side, letting more brine flow from him, and patted his back in firm, defined thumps. “There we go. There’s a lad. Thought I’d lost you. That would be a shame.”   
  


He was shivering, the cold had sunk into his very core. “S’dark. Was dark. Was drownin’.”   
  
“I know. I thought I was too late. I would have been if I hadn’t been studying that book the past few days.”

“Is it true?” His teeth chattered between burning coughing fits. “Did you feel a Fool…?”   
  
“Yes...though I also felt a Star rise so perhaps all is not what it seems-”

“A STAR?!” He yelped and struggled to his feet, flopping about like a fish. “A Star?! No, no, no! Idiot. That moron! That bloody imbecile!” 

“Anthony!” She was trying to keep him inert, to get him to rest but there was no time. If the Thing in him was exhausted he only had himself and, honestly, that wasn’t a lot. He needed to go. He needed to make sure Warlock was okay. He needed to find Aziraphale and-

Dagon was stronger than she pretended to be. Crowley was slammed back down to her table. 

“Breathe, Anthony.” She gurgled, hand spread wide on his chest once again. He looked up into her watery eyes and saw a fierce determination there.

“Breathe, Anthony, and realize that the world spins with out you. A moment to recover will change nothing. Breathe, Anthony. Breathe.”

She was using some magic on him, hypnotising him. He fought but it was a losing battle. Hr was too tired, stretched thin like cellophane over a broken window. He couldn’t keep going like this. He needed to...to….

  
Breathe.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we will see more patron shenanigans, a giant wheel presenting itself to a witch, a nerd with a crush, a walking lightening rod, and more.


	21. Chapter 21

_ Cygnet once tried to go back to their original nest. Eden had left, upset over something Cygnet was not sure about, and had not come back. It was lonely. They had been together on the very Outer for eons. Eden would roam, yes, but...this felt different. This felt like abandonment. It hurt.  _

_ Cygnet was not sure Eden would ever come back. They had been trying to tell it something important but...Cygnet had many eyes and only two openings for sound. It could be a poor listener, at times.  _

_ Its old nest was closer to the Eldest One than it would have liked. It certainly was a risk going back. The Eldest One could decide to add it to their collection of tortured ones. It could drown, burn, hang, or anything for all eternity.  _

_ Its loneliness was stronger than its fear. _

_ When Cygnet returned it was met differently than it had been in the past. When it gave its finest sword to Mother the other Stars had praised it, told it how brave it was, how strong its faith and hope was. They had said it inspired them. It didn’t even have a name and they admired it in ways that other arcana and lessers did not.  _

_ It had not returned since it denied the Eldest One their weapon. It had not been safe too. It simply flew away to the Outer, met Eden, and settled there.  _

_ Things had changed. The nests were no more, instead there was a floating structure comprised of all manner of stone and ether. White and sterile, bright as the balls of gas in the vast reaches of space. At first, it had been dazzled. Such a palace was fine spot for Stars! It shone like they did! Cygnet even matched into the stone work flawlessly.  _

_ Nests were nice...but perhaps this was better? It must be, if everyone had gotten together to build it. _

_ It alighted on the ramparts and was met by surprised songs. Not happy ones. Not welcoming ones. Just...surprised. It could hear the meaning in the notes. _

_ ‘One is still just a Star?’ _

_ It didn’t understand what the meant, until it opened its eyes and saw.  _

_ No Stars lived here. They had all changed. There were Suns and Moons, Strengths and Chariots, Temperances and Justices, many Fortune’s...but no Stars. Their wings were poorly maintained and came in all manner of wild colour. They were decorated in baubles that might have once been nice in nests but looked gaudy on the body.  _

_ There were no more Stars here. _

_ A Star it had once known swept from a high spire, their plumage as gray as a coming storm. They smelled of burning ozone and the tingle of electrical currents. Their eyes were wide open and shone with purple galaxies as Cygnet was studied. _

_ They were a Chariot now. They brimmed with control and wild opposition. It did not know what to make of it. Both Reversed and not at the same time. _

_ Where once there was a powerful melody, they now spoke in a voice that boomed like thunder with no song beneath. _ ** _ “CYGNET. THAT IS YOUR NAME NOW, YES? YOU LET A MAGICIAN NAME YOU. A SHAME. THAT TYPE CANNOT BE TRUSTED.”_ ** **** _  
_ _   
_ _ It fought back the bristling it felt stirring in its quills. Eden was a fine creature. One of the finest it had ever met, despite how their Magicians nature sometimes clashed with its own. To hear an insult of the dearest friend left a sour note in its throat. _

** _“YOU ARE STILL AN INSPIRATION. WE HAVE DECIDED TO DO NOTHING TO AID THE ELDEST.”_ ** **** _  
_ _   
_ _ Hope flared in it. A war of attrition was a fight Cygnet would willingly commit itself to. The Eldest One would have much trouble if they didn’t have enough of their kind to fight Mother and take hosts. By refusing to participate in a war that world would remain relatively unscathed and their kind would stay safely behind the Veil. _

_ Then they continued speaking. _

** _“WE WILL CROSS THE VEIL AND JOIN MOTHER. WE WILL BECOME HER CHOSEN. WE WILL MAKE SURE NONE OF THE ELDEST ONES FORCES CAN FIND PURCHASE IN THE MAMMALS SHE CREATED. THEY WILL BE OUR ACOLYTES OR THEY WILL PERISH.”_ **

_ The Mission was spoken with all the faith of a Star and none of the good intention. They had changed themselves into the very same sorts the Eldest One had at their command. They had compromised themselves with their chosen arcana’s worst traits and few of their best. The only difference was they could still thin the Veil. They could speak to attuned minds, grant power if the connection was strong. Cygnet stayed long enough to know they already had an agent…. _

_ Cygnet was disgusted. Cygnet was terrified. Cygnet was...was alone in the universe, with no voice to object. _

_ It sang to them that it would be back after it settled some things and flew away while trying to not look like it was fleeing once again. It had a feeling they knew it would not be coming back. Many eyes watched it fly away, their judgement pressing at its back.  _

_ When it returned to its nest, tired and on the edge of a rather distressing Reversal, it found itself swiftly overjoyed to see a message scratched in one of its favorite stones.  _

_ ‘Where did you go? I shall return again in time. Made a poor but necessary choice. Will laugh about it later. Wait for me.’ _

_ It hugged the message tight. Swallowed it so it could keep it close to the core of itself, pretend it was Eden wrapped around its insides. _

_ ...and slept. _

_ The only true Star left. _

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The bespectacled young man Gabriel had met a day ago was frantic. In his hand he was clutching a thick, sturdy candlestick like it was a mallet and was slamming it into a wall so hard that the plaster was chipping and the wood splintering. He was dripping with sweat, his glasses slipping down his nose only to be pushed hastily back up. He was single minded, raw with an emotion Gabriel was not personally familiar with. 

He decided to approach. This man needed assistance of some kind and direct action was needed.

“Did the house change on you?” He asked, ignoring the startled noise the man made. He really hadn’t been paying attention to his surroundings, a poor choice considering the evil nature of their predicament. 

Newton took a deep, panting breath as he tried to stammer an explanation. “S-something took Anathema! It-it pulled her through here but by the time I caught up-!”   
  
He gave a wounded, desperate noise and turned back to the wall, eyes darting across the surface. “She screamed. She isn’t anymore. What does that mean? Is she...no. Right? She’s fine. She has to be.” 

Honestly, Gabriel was not sure of that. In his experience anyone who lived without the full light of God shining down on them was not fine. They could be well or good or even moral...but were they ever truly fine? Loved? Saved? He doubted it. 

** _LEAVE HER._ **

God’s voice gave him pause. That was an unusual. He had never been given a command to leave someone in darkness. Even the wretch that broke the font had been given mercy. 

** _LEAVE HER. ALL IS WELL. SHE IS OURS. NOT HIS._ **

Gabriel frowned, studying the wall in mild befuddlement. God’s voice was stronger than ever but it lacked the steady calm and patience he was accustomed to. It sounded desperate.

Newton was beginning to pound at the wall again. “Please! Help!”   
  
That was a very human, very raw plea. A need he felt in his chest. How could he abandon him? He reasoned that the very least he could do was open the way so the younger man could be reassured of the young ladies safety.

Gabriel was strong, always had been since he was a child. He had never been as strong as he was in the moment when he kicked the wall and it flew to pieces. Huh. Interesting. That was a new level of strength. 

Newton was staring, agog, candlestick still clutched in his hands like the hilt of a sword. Gabriel ignored it, squinting through the drywall dust as it settled.

The young woman, Anathema Device, appeared fine at a glance. Her dress terribly wrinkled and hair mussed beyond public decency, but she was alive and standing on her own, unsupported. Her hands were clasped daintily before her in a rather fetching way that suggested a bouquet of flowers would not go amiss. 

The lenses of her spectacles were cracked, spider webbed in all directions. Behind he could see the violet light glowing in her eyes.

“Oh...Anathema,” Newton gasped, apparently having caught on just as quickly that something was terribly wrong. “Anathema, is that you?”   
  
She looked at him evenly, expression unchanging. “I am Uriel. I am The Wheel.” Her voice rang clear as a bell and cut like diamonds. “This is my host.”

While Newton gasped out a small cry of despair, Gabriel took a step forward. He had seen possession before. God had directed him to afflicted people before, to help them, to drive the wicked demons from their bodies or, if that could not be done, smite the whole of them to grant the human soul inside peace. This would be no different. Perhaps it would even be easier, seeing as this was a very fresh possession. 

** _LEAVE HER. SHE IS OURS._ **

God’s voice stilled him once more. 

** _THIS IS ONE OF OUR AGENTS, GABRIEL. THE ONLY ONE WE HAVE MANAGED TO GET THROUGH THUS FAR. LEAVE HER. SHE IS HERE FOR US._ **

Us. That was new. Oh, God had said ‘us’ before but he had always felt it meant God and himself. Now...now he had a feeling that ‘us’ meant something very different. 

**LEAVE HER.**

God was  _ nervous.  _ They were afraid he’d...what? Go against their Word? He never had before...but hearing uncertainty in God’s voice troubled him. 

God knew everything.

_ God shouldn’t be uncertain.  _

He moved forward again, resolve strong. “Uriel. A good name for an angel. I, myself, am Gabriel.”   
  
Anathema’s body bowed its head in polite, cold acknowledgment. 

“If you came from God, you’d have wings, right?” He asked, smiling amicably. 

Her head tilted. “Not here. Not at the moment. They are on the inside.”

He frowned. “Oh? How sad. Well, I think Miss Device didn’t exactly consent to...whatever this is, right? Surely God wouldn’t want one her children to have their free will subverted, right?”   
  
“We can do as we please. This mammal was Fortune. I am FOrtune. Therefore, she is mine.”   
  


Newton stepped up to his side, whiteknuckling the candlestick. Gabriel traded a look with him. “...is that so.”

**GABRIEL.**

In his breast pocket Gabriel kept a small collection of items. A silver flask, a purple, cotton handkerchief, and the rosary his mother had given him. He took out the flask and purple cloth.

** _GABRIEL. LEAVE HER. SHE IS NOT POSSESSED. SHE IS...BLESSED._ **

Hesitation.

He didn’t like that hesitation. 

He also didn’t like how God always seemed to mimic his mother’s voice. How had he never noticed that before? Perhaps because she passed when he was so young.

He uncapped the flask and poured a few drops onto the handkerchief. “This is going to be hard. Just know this is to save her. Alright?” He glanced at Newton and was glad to see the young man was focused and, while clearly terrified, ready to be brave and do what he must.

** _GABRIEL YOU WILL NEVER HAVE YOUR WINGS. _ **

“I’m afraid of heights anyways,” he murmured, earning a baffled look from his new companion. The smell of the ether he had doused the cloth in was beginning to permeate the room. “Newton.”   
  
The young man readied himself.

“May God, the true God, be with us.”   
  
They lunged in unison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dudes, I drew some pictures to go with this au and, well, if you wanna see you can mosey to my tumblr. I might post them here at some point but for now...enjoy. :)
> 
> Ps: Yeh I didn't get to all the things in the authors notes from last time. I CHANGED THINGS AROUND.


	22. Chapter 22

Leading the creature wearing Aziraphale by the hand blindly through the thick, unending fog was easy enough. Warlock had a vague sense of where they were going as he could recognize many of the landmarks that dotted the estate but he would have been lying to himself if he didn’t admit it was unnerving. Every fog muffled noise sent a jolt of fear to the core of him as he imagined all sorts of strange creatures lurking just out of sight, waiting to claim him as their own.

The hand he held squeezed his fingers gently, reassuringly, and he found himself feeling ever so slightly more hopeful. At least he was not alone. It would have been too much for him if he was alone.

“How much do you know about what’s happening?” He asked softly, afraid of attracting unwanted attention. Perhaps this ancient beast would have answers that would prove to be useful. Dagon once told him that the best preparation was knowledge. Nanny told him that the best way to gain knowledge was to question everything. It made sense to combine the two bites of wisdom.

It was dreadfully disappointing when, after a contemplative hum, the man-shaped thing answered just as softly, “Nothing. I came because I smelled things I wanted, not because I was aware of-um-whatever this is. I could see the others were gearing up to force through and decided to wedge through as well.”

“Oh.” Warlock deflated a little. “Well, uhm, my father is trying to summon a god he worships into this realm-”

“A god?” The creature stopped moving, forcing Warlock to linger as well. “...does...he mean the Eldest One?”   
  
“Yes! That’s it! Do you...do you know what it is?” He asked curiously. All these years being tutored by Dagon and Nanny, looking up at his father’s collection of tentacle faced idols, reading ancient texts, and just plain old eavesdropping had left him with a vast amount of pieces but no complete puzzle. He had no idea just what sort of thing this ‘Eldest One’ was. He only knew it must be evil for it spurred his father to do wicked things to good people.

It had convinced father that he needed to kill him. 

Aziraphale’s face pinched ever so slightly at the brow. “Yes. I do.” They paused in thought for a long time. Just as Warlock was starting to feel antsy about just standing around in the open the creature spoke again. “The Eldest One was the first thinking being Mother ever birthed.”

In all the stories he overheard this was the first time Warlock had ever heard a ‘mother’ mentioned. “Er...who’s its Mom?”

“Not ‘mom’. Mother. Mother was once Nothing but changed when they began to create.” Blue eyes closed as their memory was cast back into the fathomless past. “I cannot speak for the others, what their birth was like, but I remember mine. I remember being made.”   
  
Warlock looked up at him with wide eyes, fascinated. “You remember your own birth?”   
  
“Yes. Can you not?” The creature opened its eyes once again, looking at Warlock curiously. 

“Um, humans generally don’t.” He paused, thinking. “Can’t you see Mister Aziraphale’s memories?”   
  
A rather haughty frown lined the creatures face. “Who?”   
  
Oh. That was alarming. “Aziraphale. The body you’re wearing.”   
  
“He gave this to me in exchange for something. A ‘miracle’ he said!” The creature stood taller, squaring Mister Aziraphales shoulders defensively. “I may not have meant to do it but what is done is done. This is mine. I have none of him.”

Warlock forced himself to work past his budding fear. For the first time this creature was guarded. It was lying. “...that’s very sad, if it’s true. Nann-er-Mister Crowley will be extremely upset.”

“Who?” The creature asked again but Warlock was paying enough attention to see the way his eyebrow twitched slightly, heard the way their breath stuttered. They knew the name on some level. 

“Mister Crowley.” He couldn’t second guess himself, not now. He needed to push onwards, even if he wasn’t quite sure what he was pushing towards. “The one with the serpent as his patron. Eden, you said?”

Gold flashed in the pupils, a startling contrast to the blue, before they turned their face away from him.

Warlock pushed a little further. “He’s deeply, madly in love with the man you’re wearing.” Nanny had never told him that, exactly, but he had a feeling it was the case. Nanny often looked wistful whenever the topic of love arose and he would answer vaguely, brokenly, with a strangely stricken look on his face.

He had seen that same longing expression on Nanny’s face just the evening before when he and Mister Aziraphale first caught each others eyes. Hell, Warlock fancied he could feel the yearning above all else in that moment. 

The words found their mark in the creature. A wounded noise escaped pale lips and blue eyes searched his face for some trace of deceit. “Love?” The voice broke with guilt. “Edens acolyte...loves this one?”   
  
A fluttering hand came to rest at Aziraphale breast, above his heart. “Oh no,” the creature moaned softly. “How terrible. How wicked. I thought I was not wicked. Am I wicked? Did I do something bad? Oh no. Oh no!”

An icy chill began to work its way up Warlocks spine. “Is...is Mister Aziraphale…?”   
  
“I do not know. I have never done this before!” The creature almost wailed, distraught. “I dominate lessers by nature and sharing what I claim as mine has always been difficult. Ask of me a weapon and shall give it. Ask of me some hope and it will be bestowed! Anything that is MINE, however? I cannot give it up for all the universe. Oh...Eden will be so cross with me! No doubt they are attached to their host. Eden is soft. Eden likes to nurture, see things grow.”

That sounded familiar. “Nan-uhm-Mister Crowley likes to see things grow too. He gardens. He raised me!”   
  
The creature seemed to not know what to do with this information. “I am so sorry. Please. Can we find Eden? Can we find this ‘Mister Crowley’? Perhaps they will have insight!”

Before Warlock could reassure him of that being exactly his plan there was a woman’s scream, long and filled with indignant rage, yet muffled by the fog. The boy jumped, frightened by the sheer intensity of the noise. They couldn’t go that way. They shouldn’t-!

Yet that was where the creature was headed, as if heralded by the noise. 

What else could Warlock do but follow?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once he had read a book about the Dead Sea. In it the author had described how even the most leaden body was able to effortlessly float on its surface. The high salt content resulted in some chemical composition that allowed people to float and drift to their heart’s content with ease. Aziraphale had spent many a lonely night as he waited for sleep to claim him imagining what it must be like, to be weightless and untethered.

In those imaginings he felt much as he did now. 

He wasn’t quite sure if he was conscious. He certainly didn’t feel like he was. Everything around him had a distant, hazy, dream-like quality that made him question the nature of reality itself. The aimless floating did nothing to dissuade this rather uniquely disorienting feeling. 

Gradually, he was able to recognize that there was a light coming from somewhere behind him. It took him a moment to work out how to turn but when he did, he found himself wishing he hadn’t. The sight he was greeted by was, by all accounts, a bit too much for an average bookseller from SoHo to handle.

It was a star. Or the sun. Or...or  _ some _ sort of ball of burning gas. He was close to it, aware of the blood boiling heat but wholly unaffected. It roared and churned, twisting as if alive. It should have been blinding yet he stared with awestruck, terrified ease. To say he was overwhelmed would have been an understatement. 

Then the creature he was coming to know as Cygnet passed over his head and he was pulled along like flotsam in its wake. The creature paid him no mind, either ignoring him or completely unaware of his presence, and flew with a kind of joyous, pointed urgency of one who was excited to reach their destination.

Said destination turned out to be a rather large, strangely shaped rock floating in the black of space. It was both lit and warmed by the star he’d just been orbiting, but was devoid of any kind of life. 

Yet Cygnet was excited to be here.

It alighted on the sun warmed stone with a gentle grace that one would not expect from such a large being, scratched at the ground testingly with its sharp claws, and settled down like it planned to roost. Aziraphale laughed softly, despite his rather perplexing state of existence, reminded of the doves that had occupied his mothers aviary. 

Many eyes opened, pink in colour rather than the black he first witnessed, and turned their gazes to the flaming ball of gas. Rather it was looking at the growing black dot that was set against it. 

It was a serpent...or something like it. As far as Aziraphale was aware there were no snakes on earth with even one set of wings, let alone two, one set of which was perched at the sides of its flat, slender head like a statement piece. He could see a vague resemblance to Crowley’s serpentine form in the yellow of the eyes and the glossy black of its scales, but this creature dwarfed Crowley in size in terms of length and broadness. 

It landed with a ground shaking THUMP and quickly coiled it lower half tightly. The wings folded away, blending seamlessly in with their scales. It gave itself a little shake as it took stock of its surroundings, giving Cygnet time to close up their many eyes once more. 

Aziraphale instantly knew this beast to be Eden.

“Well then, Pretty Bird, what do you think? It hassss potential.” Eden looked to Cygnet for approval. “Not Nessst material, I know. A good place for a garden, though.”

Cygnet cooed and hummed, wiggling down further as if preparing for a show. It gestured broadly with a wing as if to say  _ ‘Go on, then.’ _

“Right, right. Sssspoiled, gorgeousss thing. I ssshan’t leave you waiting.” The serpent stretched taller, reminding Aziraphale of a conductor taking his position before an orchestra. “Drum roll?”

Cygnet fluffed its feathers with feigned indignation and shook its featureless head fondly...only to produce a rolling, snare drum sound from somewhere in its long throat. 

As Aziraphale watched the serpent exposed glistening, dripping fangs to the rays of the sun...and struck the ground with the ferocity of a cobra. The venom siphoned into the ground with ease, creating glowing paths that resembled the creeping of vines. Grass-like plants began to spring forth along these narrow paths and spread across the barren ground with unnatural speed.

It pained him to watch, his head throbbing at the temples as his mortal mind struggled to keep up with the sight. He squeezed his eyes closed tightly, trying to find a way to cope with the impossible lest he be driven mad.

He only opened them again when he heard the distinct, rather surprising quack of a duck. He was no longer on some far flung celestial body watching demigods create life from nothing. This was St. James Park and it was a beautiful, sunny day.

Albeit, the sun was larger than he remembered it being….

“Ange-eh!-Aziraphale!” Crowley. Crowley was calling to him. He turned to see the red head walking quickly down the path, looking very much like he was fighting the urge to jog the remaining distance, with a paper bag beneath his arm. He was younger by at least ten years.

Perhaps Aziraphale was as well. He certainly felt lighter than he had just moments ago. Even the weightless drifting couldn’t compare to how feather weighted he his chest had become.

Crowley took a spot at his left and flashed an apologetic smile. “Sorry about that. Got caught up with some business. Have you been waiting long?”

Hours. Days. Weeks. Years. Eternity. He had waited so long! “Not at all, dear boy, not at all.” He moved not so subtly closer. Closer than he had stood when this had truly happened. If this was a dream of a memory, he supposed he could do as he pleased. “I knew you’d come, sooner or later.”   
  
The man smiled and pulled half a loaf of stale, black bread from the bag. “Shall we give the ducks their nibble, then?”

It was all a dream. “I’d much rather have a nibble on you, dearest,” he purred, boldly. Such talk was normally left to private places after at least two glasses of wine. 

Crowley was unfazed. In fact, he kept speaking as if Aziraphale hadn’t attempted to entice him at all. “I have good news, you know. I’ve managed, through many acts of trickery and deceit, to gain some time away for a few days. You said something about a cottage…?”

Ah. So it was a memory more than a dream. He couldn’t alter it. “I did! Oh, how lovely! I heard that’s it quite a nice place. Secluded, as well.”

At this Crowley looked at him in that faintly blushing way that had fueled his day time fantasies for the past decade. “Are you trying to get me alone, Aziraphale?” He asked coyly. 

“My dear, if I wished to get you alone I’d take you back to my flat,” he informed the redhead, paraphrasing the words he had said years ago. He took the black bread and began to toss small chunks of it at the ducks. “I simply think it would be nice to get out of the city.” 

“Anywhere with you is bound to be more than ‘nice’, angel,” the man murmured, as if afraid to be overheard. “Anywhere you are is where I want to be.”   
  
He hadn’t said this back then. They had merely begun to plot and plan all those years ago. This was…. “Oh Crowley! I-!”

“I’d plant a hundred gardens, all just for you and I.” He continued, yellow eyes looking at him with such intense softness it took his breath away. “All the riversss would run with wine and we’d drink our fill.”   
  
Yes. The river was wine. Red and fruity smelling, dreadfully potent. It made his head spin to drink as he floated with the current, taking sips between the swords inside him. Crowley continued to his in his ear, coiled on his back and basking in the heat he offered. 

“Do you think there’sss anything beyond the Outer? We should look sssometime. Build a new Nessst together. We can create things together. How hard could it be to be Mother? How different than this?”

Yes. They had created quite a nice garden. Except they were the only thinking creatures in it. It had nothing to shine on here…nothing to sing to, nothing to give its hope or swords.

“No one will sssee what we are to each other. What we become when together. That unnameable thing, that taboo arcana…we are that, my sssweetessst sssong.”

This wasn’t his memory anymore. 

...or perhaps it was? 

Who….

Who was he anyways?

What a silly question. He knew who he was.

Eden had named him, after all.

Cygnet. 

_ He was Cygnet. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halloween is in two days and I have two kids so forgive the briefness of this addition. 
> 
> Happy Halloween, luvs!


	23. Chapter 23

_ There were exactly twenty. Ovular, glowing white and soft to the touch, a delightful contrast to the dark of their underground temple. Eden thought they looked as pretty as pearls and knew for a fact they were precious beyond all measure.  _

_ They were dreadfully proud of their clutch.  _

_ They felt much better now that they were out, though. Eden had not meant to fight with Cygnet but something about being so heavily laden had made them irritable and rather anxious. They had not realized at the time what, exactly, was happening to them and just figured that merging so completely with Cygnet, becoming that taboo arcana, had done something strange with their energy.  _

_ Lovers were rare to the point of being myth. Hell, Eden had been around almost as long as the Eldest One and they had never seen Lovers. Mother was the one that mentioned such a thing was possible, the only arcana she couldn’t create as it required too individuals to work as one. _

_ Mother had certainly never mentioned the possibility that such a union could produce this. _

_ As far as Eden knew, only Mother had created their kind before. It made sense that they had no idea why they felt as they did. It was something new, unheard of. _

_ Cygnet needed to know. It had a part in this. It would  _ ** _want_ ** _ to know. Eden reasoned that they should go to the Star right away and give it the news, explain what their lovely union had wrought.  _

_ ...but...that would mean leaving their clutch. Would they warm enough? Safe? What if they hatched in the time between and thought themselves abandoned? Perhaps they could be moved back to the nest? Ah, but maybe turning them would do harm! _

** _What if Cygnet did not like this development? _ **

_ Eden stayed, coiled about their clutch protectively. They reasoned that Cygnet would be fine on their own for a while. Surely this brood would not take long to hatch out! A few years at most, right? _

_ They allowed themselves to day dream, as they roosted, of white scales and black wings. Many, slitted eyes and magic beyond imagining. Flame and cold. A mouth full of fangs or swords where fangs should be...the possibilities were endless!  _

_ They would all be beautiful, if only because Cygnet had contributed to their creation. Actually, it would be better if they resembled a Star. Magicians could be seen as rather wretched, after all, and the Eldest One would no doubt try to take them for their own use if they suspected them to be powerful…. _

_ As it turned out, Eden need not have worried about how the young ones would look or what machinations the Eldest One might place upon them. _

_ The first one lost its lustre. It grew gray and hard. Not a speck of life remained in it. _

_ Eden did not fret. That was nature, sometimes. The strong survived and the weak faltered. It still had nineteen more. _

_ Eighteen more. _

_ Seventeen more. _

_ …. _

_ Two more. _

_ One more.  _

_ The last one held on for nine years. It grew. Eden could hear its flickering heart through the shell and, when lit from behind, could see it moving. It spoke to the precious creature in desperate, loving tones. They poured their own energy into the little one, trying to force it to thrive.  _

_ It pipped, a little flicker of light as it began to hatch. There was a whimper, like the most beautiful song in the universe- _

_ It expired as the note still echoed. _

_ Ah. Piebald scales, golden underbelly. Four lovely, blue eyes. Downy, thin wings…. _

_ Eden felt cold. They were weak. They had poured every bit of their energy into this and...and  _ ** _not one_ ** _ had made it. They were a failure. What a fool they were to believe that...that…. _

_ They didn’t leave their temple. They let themselves grow cold to the point it ached to move. Their despair rested like stones inside of its body, heavy and unyielding. They were lonely. They wanted comfort. They wanted to go back to Cygnets warm nest and pretend that it had not hoped for anything at all. They were not meant for hope. That was Cygnets wheelhouse.  _

_ Cygnet would know. Its eyes would see. It would draw the truth out.  _

_ Eden could not go back. _

_ They would never be able too. This pain was eternal, it felt sure. Cygnet would always see it the shattered remains of it hope. It would hurt it. Eden could never hurt Cygnet. _

_ They would be alone forever. How fitting for a failure such as themself. _

_ It was the wailing that ultimately brought them back from the pit of despair they were existing within. It wasn’t a noise they knew. It didn’t sound like their kind. The language it cried out in was foreign to them. _

_ It took a little longer for them to realize that there should not be anything in this temple. It was designed so Eden would never have worshippers seeking blessings or acolytes asking for power. It had no entrances or exits. It was miles beneath the earth, in the space between the Veil.  _

_ The wailing grew more desperate, frantic. Terrified.  _

_ Eden tried to ignore it. Whatever this creature was it would not entertain it. It did not belong here. It deserved whatever fate it got for being so careless. _

_ ...wailing faded to pitiful whimpering. Something in Eden stirred.  _

_ Their hatchling had whimpered before- _

_ Perhaps they had misunderstood! Maybe the hatchling was made of more energy than physical stuff! Cygnet was made of light and Eden of shadow, after all. Both very intangible things.  _

** _Maybe it wasn’t as dead as they thought! _ **

_ Hope flared in them and they roused themselves, following the noises. Their forked tongue scented the air. Yes...yes! This creature had magic in its veins! It was imbued! No doubt this was a creature with power to be honed! _

_ They would coil around it and give it a physical form made from their own scales then take them back to Cygnet and they would- _

_ ... _

_ ...it was a mammal. One of those human types. _

_ All at once the despair came flooding back. This was a young human, probably born too close to acolytes with active patrons or on top of a potent collection of leylines. It was lousy with magic and had probably slipped through a spot where the Veil was thin, accidentally tumbling into their temple.  _

_ This was not their hatchling.  _

_ For a moment Eden hated the bawling human with all their eternal being. How dare such a young thing disturb their mourning! How dare it remind them of their loss! How dare it have the audacity to LIVE in this place where hopes were crushed and failure breathed.  _

_ They watched. The young human was hungry but too small to care for itself. Dehydrated but too new to the world to know it needed liquids. It was cold. Small. Fragile. Scared. Confused.  _

_ It wanted its parents. It was lost.  _

_ It would die here. How fitting. Another young one dead within the walls of its temple.  _

_ They considered eating it. That would be a mercy, yes? The poor thing would not suffer needlessly. They could poison it so it experienced bliss for it last few moments.  _

_ Eden made no move to sate their hunger. _

_ This poor thing...poor stupid mammal...poor ignorant human...poor sweet baby…. _

_ They could not do this. They could not watch any longer. It was wrong. Vile.  _

** _….there had to be a reason for this._ **

_ Eden would find it.  _

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Crowley awoke feeling dazed, damp, and chilled. Sorrow clung to him like a blanket, tears dancing on his eyelashes. 

He had been dreaming. No. That wasn’t a dream. That was a memory. Edens memory. They were weak, all the carefully constructed barriers they had erected torn down in order to ensure Crowley didn’t die. 

They had saved his life. Again. For the first time since Eden slithered inside him, Anthony J. Crowley understood the level of personal sacrifice that his reluctant patron had endured. 

All this time he’d been so openly resentful of them. He’d fought good advice or taken power while complaining about the price he had to pay, never thinking about just how little Eden asked for in return. It was the bare minimum and they gave so much power….

He hadn’t even asked its name. It was always the ‘Thing.’ Yet, they always called him by his name.

Crowley was a bastard, he knew that, but it was only in that moment did he realize just how fucking self involved he was.

He could feel that the Thi-uhm-Eden was still inside him. They were recovering but doing so while taking nothing for Crowley. Less a parasite and more a boarder. 

Unthinkingly, he laid a hand on his chest, as if he could reach through and offer... _ something _ to them.

“You were talking in your sleep,” hurgled Dagon. She was lounging in her pool, chin resting on her folded arms. “You were saying you were ‘sorry’ and ‘didn’t know’.” 

He swallowed thickly. “...I...I don’t think Eden would...would like it if I-”   
  
“Probably not,” Dagon cut him off, saving them both some amount of awkwardness. “Are you feeling better?”

Physically, yes. Someone had been healing him and he suspected they were currently idly paddling in the black pool he was facing. Emotionally, though? He was a fucking wreck. 

“Yup. Perfect,” he lied with a rakish grin. No use in worrying an old god. 

Said Old God frowned at him and, blessedly, let it go. “The Wheel has found its host. Things are going poorly for the Master. I do not think he realized how many enemies the Eldest One had nor how willingly they’d throw themselves into the fray.”

“Gotta say, I didn’t realize he had enemies either,” Crowley confessed with a confused blink. “So, the Wheel is an ally?”   
  
“No. Just part of a faction working their own agenda. It’s all quite needless.” Dagon yawned and sank further into the water. “Either the Eldest One wins or doesn’t Anything else is but an annoyance.”   
  
Crowley stretched and rose to his feet. “...Dagon...you do know that I-”   
  
“-have an agenda as well, yes. Who doesn’t?” She chuckled, a bubbling noise that left him feeling slightly queasy to hear. “I truly don’t care who wins this conflict, Anthony. If the Eldest One wins I’ll ascend to their side and will benefit greatly. If the faction this Wheel comes from wins I’ll slip into the depths of the oceans and stay there until the universe ends. If humanity wins? Well...I have thoughts on what I shall do but no firm plans yet.” 

“So...you’re not going to stop me?” He asked curiously. 

“Not at all. Though, Anthony, I do wish you’d wait until your Magician has recovered. These are forces that no one man can go against.” She looked at him critically, assessing his physical worth. “I know you were in the last war but such skills will do little against my kind. Even the magic you may try to work on your own will be a pale imitation of what it normally is.” 

“...I need to find Warlock and Aziraphale.,” he murmured softly before clearing his throat, forcing himself to stand taller. “Warlock deserves a good patron, not whatever dredges have been leaking through. Aziraphale...he’s...well...he’s old, right? I mean, old to get a patron and come out fine. What if...what if he’s gone mad like Hastur or Ligur?”

“Can’t help but notice you are not concerned about the one that has the Wheel. They will have trouble. They could be driven mad.” Dagon pointed out curiously. 

“Listen, I have a limited amount of fucks left to give. Two, actually. One for Warlock, one for Aziraphale.” It was a lie. He cared about these strangers even though it would be easier not to. He had his priorities, though, and he reasoned he could live with the guilt as long as he could save the two he loved the most.

He was wasting time. “I need to go. Where are the stairs gunna take me right now?”   
  
Dagon looked up thoughtfully. “...where do you want them to take you?”   
  
Shit. Warlock or Aziraphale. FUCK. 

“...W-Warlock,” he bit out, hating the choice. “I need to make sure he’s safe.”   
  
Dagon grinned. 

“I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Sir!” Warlock called, barely keeping up to the creature. “Please wait!” 

The creature wearing Aziraphale was having no trouble operating his legs anymore. It was moving fleetly through the fog, guided by screams and, now, the sounds of unbridled destruction. The house loomed out of the fog with a suddenness that should have been impossible for such a large, sprawling thing. The front doors yawned wide, as if welcoming them both back.

Warlock didn’t like that, not one bit. He had told the creature we should find the house, find Nanny but now that he found himself feet from the threshold he was hesitant to cross. 

The man-shaped thing had no such compunctions and barreled inside.

Damn it. He’d need to follow. Somehow, this had become his responsibility. With a deep breath and a prayer to a god he felt certain wasn’t listening he crossed back into the house.

Being eleven was turning out to be a rough time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [innocent whistling]
> 
> So, how are ya'll doing? Good?


	24. Chapter 24

To a being that could potentially live forever, human life spans were frightfully short. Eden knew this when they took the child on as their host but...but it was still a bit of a shock just how quickly time passed. Sometimes it seemed entire years would pass between one breath and the next. 

One minute Anthony J. Crowley was cheerfully learning his numbers and the alphabet, the next he was sulkily working through fractions and prostinating on the writing of an essay on the merits of some human imagining called ‘Hamlet’. It was startling, how fast humans developed from helpless creatures to ones capable of deep thought.

Anthony J. Crowley was especially adept at deep thought, it turned out. By the time he was thirteen years of age Eden had been present for all sorts of inner debates and tortured philosophical discussion on existence and freedom. It was becoming an alarming past time for the boy, one that Eden did not realize they needed to pay closer attention to until it was nearly too late. 

Humans needed sleep, especially growing teenagers. Eden did not need sleep but enjoyed the hell out of it. They had fallen into the habit of sleeping when their young host would, seeing no need for that kind of vigilance. The others hosts were able to sense there was something off about Anthony J. Crowley’s patron and the Master seemed intent on making the boy his successor in...whatever this was all going to be in the end. His host was safe to sleep and so was Eden. 

They knew something was wrong the minute they began to stir. It was still night time, late if the damp chill was anything to go by. His host was outside, looking up at the inky, starless sky with their shared eyes. There was a tremble in their body, a bitter taste in their mouth, white flowers clenched in their hands….

_ Anthony J. Crowley, what have you done?  _

No answer was forthcoming but the hitch in the boys breath indicated they had been heard. 

_ Hemlock will kill you.  _

Again, no answer. Eden didn’t understand. The boy knew that this was deadly. Why would he knowingly eat something that would harm him, especially when no one was awake to help? It flew in the face of survival!

_ We do not underssstand. Isss thisss a tessst? _

The boy choked a humorless, despairing laugh out. “No, you git. I’m trying to kill myself.”

_ Why? _

“Because I know what’s going to happen. I’m going to become cruel tosser like Hastur, or a sadistic bastard like Ligur, or a stone cold thing like Beelzebub, or a lonely monster like Dagon.” A spasm struck the boys body, stealing his breath for a moment. He continued through clench teeth when it passed. “Perhaps the worst thing is to become the Masters lap dog. He wants to sacrifice it all, the whole world and... _ I just can’t.” _ __   
  
Boy and old god lapsed into silence. The former waiting for death, the latter wondering about how humans could so easily lose hope. Cygnet would despair to see it. 

...and Eden had listened to Cygnet’s songs for eons. 

_ I cannot ssstop you, Anthony J. Crowley. I am your patron. You do with your life what you mussst. Thisss will dessstroy me as well but...not even immortalsss can last forever. However...I never took you for one to leave before the work isss done. _

Silence. Another convulsion. The burning of bile in a tender throat….

“Ngk...wh-what do you mean? What work?”

_ The work to sssave the world. _

“...hnm?”

They needed to speak quickly. They needed to tempt and spin tales. The boy wouldn’t be able to agree to much of anything soon. 

_ We will essscape thisss place. Keep our eyesss and earsss sharp. I will provide the power, you will provide the knowledge. We will essscape and disssmantle it all. We will sssave everyone...and you will be happy. I promissse you. _

The boy sobbed. It was hurting now. It was frightening. 

He whimpered.

Eden redoubled. 

_ Anthony J. Crowley, trade me your appetite. I will give you resissstance. No poissson of nature, venom of beassst, or deadly potion of man will harm you. Do you agree? _

Another spasm. He couldn’t breathe. 

Anthony J. Crowley, do you agree? 

A pitiful noise, a sob. 

_ ...pleassse agree. Pleassse...come on...pleassse…. _

“Uhn...kay….”   
  
It was not the enthusiastic consent they would have liked but the boy was struggling to breathe….

It would have to do. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Exorcisms were not usually calm affair but this was a whole new sort of ball game. For one, Gabriel was finding out that the being occupying Miss Device was mouthy. 

“Why do you not listen, Gabriel?” It asked in cool tones, mouth dripping with the remnants of the ether he attempted to apply. “You are being told that I have come from the one you worship.”   
  
He hated that it knew what God was saying in his head. Doubt was finding purchase in him and with doubt came uncomfortable questions. One could not have faith and will but also question things. 

**LISTEN, GABRIEL. LISTEN.**

He did not wish to listen. Miss Device wanted no part of this. A possession was a possession, no matter if the source was angelic or demonic. He was offering himself up to God...Miss Device had done no such thing. 

It was wrong.

He’d set it right. 

Newton had her pinned under the arms and was struggling to keep her in place. She was strong, her errant kicks could shatter furniture and walls with little effort. How Newton was able to keep her from throwing him like a rag doll was a mystery to Gabriel, one that he’d need to investigate further once this possession was dealt with. 

He pressed his rosary to her forehead and tried to focus. It was hard with voices echoing inside his head and out. “ In the Name of Jesus Christ, our God and Lord, strengthened by the intercession of the Immaculate Virgin Mary, Mother of- ”

“Mother…,” The creature named Uriel drawled, curious and venomous. “Is there a Mother of all for you as well? Our Mother is yours, you know.”

Gabriel floundered briefly. Normally these prayers worked, sent something spitting and hissing back into the dark. This creature was intent on mocking him. 

There was a knife in his coat. It was blessed, silver, and had spilled the blood of those that couldn’t be saved. God had commanded he acquire such a thing. God had said an angel needs a good weapon. 

  1. ** THE KNIFE IS FOR OTHERS, GABRIEL. LEAVE THIS ONE.**

Desperation. God was afraid he’d use it and send this creature back from whence it came. 

….just what had God been having him kill all these years? 

The question shook him to the core. Once one was asked dozens more began flooding in. Was the God? Was he being taken advantage of? Was his faith and love being prayed upon? What if this was God and he needed to do as they said? Could he do that at the expense of an innocent woman? 

Falling. He was falling. Lord above, he was stationary but his world was unraveling-! 

The clear ringing of a bell brought him back. 

“God arises!” Sergeant Shadwell spoke confidently, like a man who had said the words countless times. He held no rosary or weapon in his hand, only a bell his left and a book under his other arm. “His enemies are scattered and those who hate Him flee before Him. As smoke is driven away, so are they driven!” 

Gabriel hadn’t seen this method before. The witchfinder kept eye contact with Miss Device, punctuating the end of every sentence with another ring of his bell. It was working, somehow, more effectively than his own technique as the pinned woman began to thrash and convulse with a desperation that wasn’t there before with every toll of the bell. Madame Tracey stood behind the older man in awe, eyes wide and hands clenched in front of her chest. 

“As wax melts before the fire, so the wicked perish at the presence of God!” Gabriel joined him in chorus, feeling his will to continue and have faith in the rightness of his actions return. “We drive you from us!”

The bell rang once again and the woman screamed as if her soul had ben rend from her body.

There was light, harsh and cold. The floor beneath them was shaking violently. His ears were ringing.

Gabriel realized far too late that the floor was collapsing. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   
  
Cygnet followed the screams. Someone was hurting and it would see it stopped. The human nest was cramped, it would have never been able to fit inside at its real size, and left it feeling a bit confused. So many walls...how was anyone supposed to stretch their wings in here? Although, the human hatchling didn’t have wings or a tail or tentacles...maybe humans just required less space as they grew. 

The young human was saying words but it was too busy feeling out the area. The screaming had reached a new pitch, yes, but there was also a ringing that made it twitch. Someone was using a banishment technique. Humans were very clever to figure out how to effectively gather their own energy and funnel it-

Oh. The ceiling was splitting. The child cried out and leaped backwards to safety, calling for Cygnet to follow.

...except there were other humans falling. They had probably been on an upper floor. This fall wouldn't kill its own kind but humans looked much weaker….

It spread its wings without thinking. Oh! It could still do that in this body! It had been very worried, truthfully, about the loss of flight. The placement of its wings were a bit off and the span of them upset the balance of its human body but it didn’t need them to fly right now.

It just needed them to spread and catch. 

Humans were heavier than it thought. It hurt when they collided with its wings but it grit its teeth and held on as they spilled from above. Several voices were shouting out in fear and confusion but only one was able to articulate their thoughts.

“AN ANGEL? YOU’RE AN ANGEL?!” The man in gray was yelling in horror and….some other emotion it couldn’t place. It didn’t know what an angel was. Was that a bad thing? It must have been because this man was clearly very upset. 

Cygnet didn’t have time to dwell on it. It shook humans and debris alike from its wings and allowed them to tuck safely back into the ether they had been created from, then realized it felt a familiar presence above them. It looked, narrowing ineffective human eyes at the source. 

A Wheel. No. Not a true wheel. It looked like one with its spinning, orbiting circles, vertical eyes, and four arms...but it had wings and fire. This had been a Star once.

One Cygnet knew.

“Uriel?” It asked curiously, tilting its head. This had been the plan but...seeing the former Stars go through with it was quite another thing. As far as Cygnet could tell, this place on the other side of the Veil was nothing to get so worked up about. Surely, if Mother was still here, she’d disapprove of these actions in her name.

Uriel spun faster. “Traitor.”   
  
Oh. 

So that’s how it was going to be. 

Cygnet smiled with its borrowed mouth, sensing a fight coming on. As if in response, one of its smaller, human sized swords was summoned to its hand. It didn’t flame but….

Well, Cygnet suspected it wouldn’t need to.

Uriel was outclassed, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having a worst mental health time than usual, luvs. Please accept this chapter and all its flaws.


	25. Chapter 25

Pact made, the boy and serpent waited. The radio in the Masters parlour told tales about the war and, eventually, how recruiters weren’t being thorough in their vetting of the ages of potential soldiers. Beelzebub went to London at the Masters request and they plied as stealthily as they could for information about the city. Hastur took the train from the nearest town and took no notice when the schedule went missing. Ligur went into a fit one evening because a bottle of scotch he’d been saving was misplaced. Mister and Misses Crowley started finding things from their modest, servants home missing and parts of the garden stripped but said nothing lest they were punished. 

In truth, Eden had very little to do with these early stages. They acted as a sounding board for the boys plans and made suggestions on the timing of some events, but they’re clever host was always the one taking the first step. Sometimes Anthony J. Crowley would become frustrated or impatient with how slowly some parts were coming together and would make another attempt on their young life but Eden was there, hissing into his mind, urging him to continue.

The news of a mass recruitment drive crackled over the radio and Master Mos seemed not to notice. The news of a storm that night fell on his inattentive ears as well. Anthony J. Crowley, sitting at a desk and drawing occult symbols up at his Master’s request, heard it all. 

That day he spilled the ink all over his work. Then he was caught sneaking biscuits from the pantry. Next he was found waving about Ligurs missing bottle of scotch around while quoting some bawdy bits of poetry he’d read. The final nail in the coffin was questioning the Master and harshly criticizing his plans. 

He was slapped, berated, pulled by the hair to his room, and told that he could come out in a few days when the Magician in him ‘calmed down’. The door had barely locked behind them before the boy was grinning and serpent was hissing unheard laughter. 

A few days would give them plenty of time.

There was no thunder in the forecast but it came. Eden and their cunning host made sure of that. It was tiring business, manipulating a force of nature as powerful as the weather but both of their wills aligned on the matter, producing enough energy to make it happen. 

It boomed so loudly that windows shook and crockery trembled. 

No one heard the window depicting the Magician break. No one saw the boy slip through and shimmy down the vines that hadn’t been there a few days before. No one saw him abscond across the grounds to the stables where-

“Oh God,” Crowley drawled, recoiling. There was the scotch he had laced with a concoction he made from the plants his parents tended, sitting on a barrel next to a half nude, unconscious Ligur and an equally unconscious, half nude Hastur. Both were sprawled on top of each other and- “Ugh. Can you take my memories of this exact moment next, please?” 

_ I don’t want them either. I wish I wasssn’t here for thisss. Human mating isss...unappealing. _

“Ngh, don’t call it that. I beg of you.”

Anyways.

They couldn’t take a horse, that would be noticed too quickly, but they  _ could _ take Beelzebubs rusty old bike. It hadn’t seen much use in many years but a quick bit of magic and the tires were inflated, the chains oiled. 

They rode against the wind and driving rain like their lives depended on it. 

  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The stairs were longer than they should have been. Crowley panted curses and dark vows against the architecture as he struggled to keep up the brutal pace he set. His lungs were burning. Running was never his strong suit and Eden was rarely useful when it came to feats of endurance or strength. 

There was a racket somewhere above. A fight. Shouting. It all sounded far away still. 

A hiss was rising in his throat.

It was not his own.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next days were good for the souls of human host and Outer Being both. 

Crowley had always suspected that people, ones with no knowledge of the occult or what looks back from the darkness, were at their core good. The dusty old books of fairy tales he’d read as a child were full of heroes doing what was right. As he grew older the narratives became more complicated, he’d see more complex types of good. He took to moral debate and ‘gray area’ thinking like...like...like  _ some _ water creature would take to water. 

He’d seen kindness even in the broken members of his strange ‘family’. Hastur would always come to his room directly after the Masters whenever there was a cold snap to ensure the fire place was working well and he had enough quilts. Ligur was gentle with the horses he cared for, sneaking sugar cubes to them whenever he thought no one was looking. Beelzebub caught him trying to end his own life in one of his lower moments and had not only listened to his pains but guided him back to his room and stayed until dawn. She never told on him. 

Dagon praised him readily and often,his mother would soothe him even as she was falling apart, his father would take punishments for his own failings in the garden.

...the Master would tell him how brilliant he was and would spoil him with treats when he’d done something particularly impressive.

If these mostly awful people were able to show some spark of gentleness, what must a perfectly normal person be capable of? It turned out they were capable of quite a lot.

He didn’t have money yet. He’d need to get to a bigger city to pawn the bits of jewelry he had escaped with first. That left him in a lurch when he finally arrived at the train platform. He knew the schedule but not the cost of fares -hell- it hadn’t even occurred to him that a ticket would be a thing he needed!

This left him with one option: he’d have to stow away. 

Hopping aboard the baggage car as the train pulled from the station was easy enough. Holding on to the rain slick railings as the train trundled and bucked its way down the track at increasing speeds proved to be much harder, especially when the frigid winds began to numb his fingers so badly they burned. The track got rougher in spot, giving him a bit of a fright as he was nearly thrown.

His savior came in the form of a man that he never got the name of. A conductor, judging by his outfit. At first he snarled through his well waxed mustache about him travelling without a ticket was tantamount to stealing...only to soften with pity as he took in Crowley’s cold induced trembling and rather stricken expression. He took him into the baggage car, his him away behind the trunks, and gave him food.

This was when Eden discovered that humans were not just slightly above average animals. 

They had a teenagers appetite, where once their hunger had only been for power, knowledge, and mischief. The yawning pit that would form somewhere inside of them and growl out complaints if meals were skipped. They would remind Crowley of his need to eat while hating every minute of this new sensation. 

They finally understood why Cygnet would get so ornery if they went too long without gorging. Eden swore that should they ever reunite they’d never tease their beloved for their gluttony again for as long as they were together. 

The conductor brought food. Good, hot, delicious food and expected nothing in return. They didn’t even want to be thanked. The reward was this seemingly defenseless boys continued health and safety. 

Eden envied the ability to give for the sake of giving. It was not something Magicians could do and others of their kind, while capable, were too selfish or domineering to give without reward. It was survival of the fittest, after all. Be strong, be loyal, or risk being devoured. 

Humans were capable of choosing kindness, of doing things that flew in the face of individual survival.

Eden envied.

Crowley loved.

They would both see it protected.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first clash was a test of strength and footing, neither totally sure what the other was capable of in these new forms. 

Cygnet was well trained. It was built to fight. However, it was used to being able to see from, not only, all angles but also intent. It felt like it was made up of blind spots in this new body which was disconcerting. It would need to adapt, find this bodies strengths and take advantage of Uriel’s weaknesses. Such as their difference in size, that was easily seized upon. 

It dodged the second strike, the horizontal wheel coming down upon it as if Uriel hoped to take their head off. A problem when one had a long neck but not so much of one when said head was closer to the body. It dodged with ease around them and took advantage of a difference in speed to take out two eyes and create a blind spot for itself.

Uriel did not appreciate this. “You dare?! We are brethren!” They howled, indignant in the way a foe often was when they had anticipated an easy victory.

Someone hadn’t been keeping up on their training. 

“You just greeted me by calling me a ‘traitor’,” it pointed out sweetly, smiling with its foreign mouth. “If you had started with a kinder greeting I may have been softer.”

“I see some poor fool has given you their mouth.” Uriel snarled, spinning, flames growing hot to the point the beams that had fallen were beginning to catch. “I had forgotten you could be...you.” 

“You used to be more like me as well. If anything, I am true to myself while you are in the midst of an identity crisis.” Cygnet sniffed, indignant. Honestly, the whole concept was quite unsettling to it. How had they even managed to change themselves so completely that they were barely identifiable as Stars?

...its bodies clothing was beginning to singe and the hair on its arms was burning away. Oh. Perhaps fire resistance was something that was beyond the realm of human flesh? No matter. It would simply give it fire resistance.

…

_ It did not know how to do that. _

Cygnet slashed a wing, cringing as the blow was partially blocked by one of the spinning rings, and danced back. The humans were trying to put distance between Uriel and themselves as well but the door itself and the human child entered through had vanished, leaving them stuck. The only other door was situated squarely behind Uriel. 

Alright then. It was time to lead. 

Once again it danced back on its annoyingly short legs, prodding and glancing, baiting Uriel away from the door. Hitting too hard would just further entrench the former Star while lighter, sloppier strikes that left obvious openings on Cygnets form would embolden it. They wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation. 

It was a novel strategy. One that was conceived of during a training session when a familiar, welcome weight was coiled around its neck like fine jewelry.

(“Do all Sssstarsss fight with such honor? No wonder your contessstsss and challengesss ssso often end in Drawsss. If you could massster sssubtefuge and guide an opponent where you’d like them to be you’d have victory in your talons!”)

Cygnet had tried to deny the truth of the assessment at the time. Honor was important. Given the circumstances, however, it would forgive itself if it resorted to nontraditional tactics. Lives were at stake! 

It taunted. Uriel followed. The flames drew away from the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

War for humans was vastly different than war amongst Edens kind. It was brutal in unpredictable ways. When Eden had gone to war they had coiled in the dark, a creature that did not feel like they had a stake in either side of the conflict, and would heal or aid whatever side seemed they needed the assistance the most. They would heal the Eldest Ones forces and Mother’s loyalists for, in their mind, they were all made of the same stock. They knew the names of many, had been present at the birth of most. 

The only exception was the nameless ones. The ones that were small, weak, and stupid. These were the ones that Mother made by accident, as would sometimes happen, or lacked the ‘spark’ that made something truly sentient. The Eldest One collected these sad creatures in secret, only to use them as cannon fodder. 

It was on these poor wretches the Eden would feed. It was their power it added to their own. It was because of them that Eden was able to demonstrate to the Eldest One, at the end of the War, that they were best left alone. 

Eden craved power but had no use for the amount it had accumulated. It merely wanted to be strong enough to be left to their own devices.

War for humans was bloody and brutal. Human’s only gained land, political power, or superiority over their fellows in such struggles. They did not devour each other and gain power, they could not easily heal those dreadfully harmed, and they could not revive the recently dead if the body was relatively unharmed. It was simply to clear out lives and prove themselves. 

It was into this confusing environment Anthony J. Crowley threw himself, Eden along for the ride. It was a muddy, cold, wasteland full of loud bangs, explosions, and various levels of desperation. Eden could not tell the difference between the English, the French, and the Germans. They were all humans. 

Anthony J. Crowley seemed to know the difference. He was a good soldier. Followed orders, quick to act when the need arose, and very good at getting close to enemy lines without being spotted. 

The boy was terrified. He regretted choosing this way to escape. He wondered if he should have taken up theft or simply found another way to stay hidden from the Master. Surely one had to exist. This course was quickest. They should have waited longer….

Eden and Anthony J. Crowley both were glad when the war ended. The latter was more of a young man than a boy and the former felt they had a better understanding of humanity than any of their kind could ever hope. 

They were hardly off the boat when they were clobbered over the head and knocked out cold.

When they awoke they found themselves laying on a familiar bed, staring at a familiar ceiling, bathed in tinted sunlight streaming in from a stained glass depiction of the Magician.

Anthony J. Crowley had screamed.

Eden despaired. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There were footsteps and frantic voices echoing down the stairs. Crowley hugged himself to the wall, struggling to hear above the hissing in his head. Eden was waking and being uncharacteristically bossy about having direct control over his body. It was becoming tiring to argue with. 

Warlock nearly ran right past him. He snagged him by the arm, frightening a scream out of the boy that quickly died and was replaced by tearful relief. 

“Nanny!” He almost sobbed and through himself into Crowleys thin chest with such force it winded the man for a moment. “Oh Nanny! I’ve been looking all over for you!”

Others were piling up on the stairs behind their reunion. Crowley didn’t notice. He was too busy holding Warlocks face between his trembling hands, studying him for any sign of injury, relaxing only when he was assured that he was mostly okay. “Thank Christ. I thought...I was afraid-!”   
  
“I was being chased by a Fool but it wasn’t a nice Fool! It was trying to take me-”   
  
“Dagon said she felt a fool die and I-”   
  
“There was another! Um, I dunno what kind it was but you should have seen it Nanny! It was huge and white and it ATE the creepy-”

“I need to get you out of-”

“-and Mister Aziraphale touched the big one and now I think it owns his body-” Warlock stopped suddenly, the hands on his face going frightfully still. “...Nanny?”   
  
He gained no response.

Nanny wasn’t available any longer. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The disadvantage of using oneself as bait meant willfully cornering oneself. At least, that was what Cygnet was learning it meant. Human nests were so narrow in spots and it seemed this place was abiding by its own rules, reforming and twisting as it pleased so that no hall seemed to go to the same place twice. Fire was catching on the carpeting, the wallpaper, the drapes. Its human vessels insides were burning with every breath and producing distressing, choking exhalations. Its eyes were watering, the smoke was too thick to see past with mortal vision.

Uriel was gleeful with this turn of events. “It looks like your host cannot handle fire. How odd. Why have you not given it resistance?”   
  
Cygnet chose not to reply. Uriel didn’t need to know about not being able to exchange power with a human body. It would only give it an advantage if it managed to worm its way back into its intended vessel. Knowledge that it had to finesse the human body in a way that Cygnet had not yet discerned. 

Its back hit a wall. It had run out of places to dance. 

Uriel spun victoriously towards it. “I will tell the others you fought well for having such an obvious handicap. You really should have come back to the nest. We could have used you.”   
  
“You will forgive me if I do not feel the same regret regarding the matter,” Cygnet sniped with a polite bow of its head. Uriel’s many eyes narrowed at it. 

It spun faster and faster, wings flaring wide, fire growing wild and strong. It spun towards Cygnet who readied its sword for a last stand. How unfortunate, that the human it occupied would perish with it. It was a good body, strong, not unpleasant...at least it would be too busy being nonexistent to feel guilty. 

The thorn riddled vines that tore through the walls and flooring were a welcome surprise, especially when they began to tangle in Uriel’s spinning wheels. For every vine torn another came into being, holding the faux-Wheel in place, forcing the momentum from it. Soon it was at a stand still, both wheels straining against the vines.

“What is this?! What is this?!” Uriel howled, flaming burning brighter in desperation. Cygnet knew exactly the source of this boon. It grinned in delight.

If only it had its real mouth. It was salivating at the thought of devouring this victory and reaping the rewards. 

It would need to settle with utterly destroying this pitiless abomination. 

“Wait-!” Uriel managed before Cygnet struck at its exposed core with a decisive plunge of its sword. The flame flared brighter, shook, melting the blade and forcing its hands away from the hilt. It split in twain, its light fading, and for a moment there was the image of a slender neck, many eyes….

Then the light went out.

Cygnet heaved a breath and mopped sweat from its brow. Around it vines lost their thorns only to grow verdant and thick then twist and smother the remaining flames before they could spread. It reached out, brushing a tender hand over one of the closer tendrils fondly. 

“Cygnet?” The voice came from the end of the hallway that Uriel had just moments before made their final charge through. Another human form. Tall, appropriately lanky, hair as red as belly scales, slitted yellow eyes….

“Eden,” Cygnet breathed, grinning when the form at the end of the hall gasped in surprise at hearing their name spoken by Cygnet for the first time in all their time together. 

Who ran first, they could not say. They met in the middle of the hall, throwing their borrowed bodies together clumsily, joyfully. 

Around them the vines exploded into bright, red blooms. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the well wishes, it's meant a lot. I'm not at a 100% but here's a chapter for your enjoyment. :)


	26. Chapter 26

For a moment, Eden forgot all urgency. They forgot the Eldest One pressing against the Veil, the other arcana trying to find purchase, Crowley’s voice shouting for control. It was all background noise. Insignificant. 

_ Cygnet had said their name! _

It was with another’s voice but Cygnets energy laced the title. Long had Eden dreamed of hearing the other’s voice, hearing the affection they lathered upon the Star echoed back. Songs were wonderful, they would have been content with notes and intent alone, but Cygnet had thoughts Eden had always wanted to hear. It would sometimes do things that Eden couldn’t fully understand, even after so many eon’s together. 

Eden didn’t even know how Cygnet came to be in its star system, that time when they first met. The universe is vast beyond comprehension, even for their kind. Why did it end up there? Was it choice or chance?

Eden was a being brimming with questions and had never been able to gain answers concerning the one they adored most.

Yet they didn’t ask any. Not yet.

“Pleassse,” they begged, softly, desperate. “Say it again.”   
  
Cygnet smiled with Aziraphale’s mouth, knowing what they needed. “Eden. My sly serpent. My silken dark.”   
  
They went weak in their knees. Cygnet, despite their numerous injuries, held them up with a smile. “Again?”   
  
“Oh Eden! My Eden!” Cygnet cooed in heartfelt tones. “I have missed you. The nest was too big for me alone! Every inch of bare space was a reminder of your absence and my neck has felt the loss of your weight.”

It was almost too much, hearing such sincere declarations from their sweet song bird for the first time. They almost felt like crying for joy.

....then they remembered the last time they had cried and put distance between the two of them. Cygnet did not reach after them with their foreign hands. Instead they tilted their head and tilted their head in that way it did when it was trying to piece together a puzzle. 

“...you would have come back on you own, eventually, yes?” It asked, narrowing humans eyes in their direction. 

Eden shook their head slowly, unable to meet their eyes. Only two of them but no less intimidating. They were being Seen. They weren’t  _ Known _ yet, thankfully, but they were Seen. 

“Were you afraid?” Soft. Confused. Hurt. There was an unspoken question within the one what was voiced.  _ Did I scare you away? _

“Yes,” Eden murmured but reached for it, taking its new hands with tender care and healing the angry blisters their battle had left on the palms. A peace offering and reassurance wrapped up in on action.  _ It wasn’t you. Never you. _ “I was afraid you’d See my failure.”

“What failure?” Softer still, no less concerned. They still couldn’t meet its eyes. They couldn’t answer. The words choked them. Instead they began to heal the nasty wound on its head, to erase the mammal blood drying in downy hair. An older wound, if only by an hour or so. Aziraphale must have gained this on his own.

Anthony J. Crowley surged forward. They pushed him back. Soon. They’d let him out soon. When all their sins were judged they’d cede control back and hide away to avoid the hurt they were about to inflict like the snake they were.

“...is it painful to speak of?”

They nodded, managed a few strangled words. “You’ll hate me.”

“Should I not be the judge of that?” It asked firmly, not unkindly. “There is very little you can do that will make me think ill of you. At most I may be upset or angry. Never hate.” 

It paused, thoughtfully. “Will you show me?” 

Eden’s doubts were a physical thing that had been present since that last little one didn’t thrive. They smothered them, haunted them. 

They were  _ very _ tired of hiding. They wanted to breathe. 

Nodding, they took a breath with human lungs and Opened themselves wide for the first time in millenia.

_ There were exactly twenty...precious beyond all measure. only Mother had created their kind before. Cygnet needed to know.  _ ** _What if Cygnet did not like this development? _ ** _ The first one lost its lustre. The last one held on. They poured their own energy into the little one, trying to force it to thrive...a whimper, like the most beautiful song in the universe...it expired as the note still echoed...piebald scales, golden underbelly. Four lovely, blue eyes. Downy, thin wings….  _ ** _Failure._ ** _ Cygnet would know. Would see. Would hurt.  _ ** _Would hate_ ** _ ! Cannot go back...cannot… not ever.  _

_ There was more. Why it took a host. The life they had been living. The times leading up to this very moment…. _

Eden waited, eyes down cast. They healed up minor scrapes and blooming bruises, the smoke in their lungs, cleaned away the white powder that clung to them, if only to keep Anthony J. Crowley at bay just a little longer. 

Cygnet was silent. What did that mean? 

An eternity passed before a hand cupped their cheek gently, inching down until soft, newly healed finger tips found their way beneath the jut of their chin. Guided it upwards so their eyes were forced to meet.

Tears were running freely over plush cheeks. “You need not have suffered on your own. You are no failure. I would have come to you. I would have done what the Eldest One has always wanted and torn the Veil asunder myself to offer you comfort. I am yours, you are mine. Whatever pain you have is mine as well,  _ especially this.” _

Eden gaped as the weight lifting as if the gravity of the entire earth had changed. They could breathe. They were Seen and deemed worthy still. “Cygnet, oh, Cygnet!”

Anthony J. Crowley and Aziraphale had embraced often in their time together. Eden knew what to do. Arms wrapped tightly around the other and pulled them close, cheek to cheek. The scent wasn’t Cygnets own but the energy that touched theirs was. No matter the form, wrapping around Cygnet was one of Edens great pleasures. 

“Oh!” The Star gasped and mirrored the gesture, slotting its soft curves as best it could against sharp angles. “Oh...this-this is nice. Do humans do this often?”   
  
“When they care about someone, yesss.”

“I like it!” It giggled giddily, holding them so tightly that their lithe spine cracked and groaned. Not an unpleasant feeling, especially when one slouched as much as Anthony J. Crowley was accustomed to. 

“There’sss a lot to like about humans. A lot to dessspissse too.” Eden mused into its soft cheek, unwilling to let go. “You’re not ssseeing the good partsss yet. Wait until the fog liftsss. The ssskiesss are blue, the cloudsss white, the watersss fathomlessss, the land verdant. It’sss a world made for joy before all elssse.” 

“You sound enamoured.” 

They grinned into its shoulder. “A little. Don’t tell my host. He’ll never let me forget it.”

Cygnet stilled against them, rigid. “Ah...s-so you...you can hear your host?”   
  
Eden pulled back to look the other in the face, dread finding purchase in them. “Yesss. Can you not…?”   
  
It shook its head slowly. “No. I...saw flashes of their thoughts but ever since then there has been a kind of fuzziness in my mind that I cannot seem to-Eden? Are you alright?”

Eden was not alright. They were being pulled back by a force made of pure desperation. A will that they had honed for years.

They had no control when Anthony J. Crowley slammed their precious Cygnet into the nearest, scorched wall. “What did you do? What did you do to him?!”

Cygnet look at him with wide, confused eyes. “Eden?!” 

“Not Eden. Crowley. I’m Crowley. Fuck!  _ What did you do?!” _ It was as much a moan of despair as it was a demand for answers. “He wasn’t even supposed to be here. I shouldn’t’ve talked to him. I shoulda just put out my cigarette and gone back inside! What was I thinking?! It was too dangerous and now...now-” his voice cracked, the force with which he was pushing at the Star reduced significantly as if all the fire in him drowned- “oh, my angel! I’m so sorry...so sorry….”

He’d failed him. He was supposed to keep him safe. That was what the distance was all about! At any time in the past eleven years he could have checked in and reassured him that he was still loved. He’d been in London! Every time he checked on Warlock at the boarding school he’d stop and get the gossip! Eleven years of caution, of fear, all for it to...to….

He could have loved him better.

He could have _ done _ better. 

An achingly familiar hand touched his cheek with none of the affection he longed for. The tenderness this creature was attempting to show him was not for him. He might as well just let Eden have all of him, make a deal that ensured he’d never know another ache because he’d be good as dead just like...just...just like Aziraphale. 

“...I have done a terrible wrong to you.” Aziraphale’s voice without his intonation. He shuddered, unable to meet blue eyes and face the alieness that occupied them. “It was not my intent, nor his. He reached in offerance and I took in the same way I always do: fully and completely. I have shattered something in you, I can see it. All your hopes are dashed. I...I do not know how to help!”

Crowley pressed his forehead to on of those well mapped shoulders and tried in vain to withhold a sob. At least...at least this patron was kind. It was a comfort to know that Aziraphale’s body had something good in control of it. If the patron had been cruel or rotten he would have had to...to….

He sobbed openly, unable to hold it back any longer. 

_ Asssk it Open like the First Time. _

Crowley didn’t have the energy to question. He didn’t care. He was tired and the world was ending. Warlock had people with him. They’d get him out or they’d fail...didn’t matter. It was all ending….

_ Anthony J. Crowley. Asssk Cygnet to Open like the First Time. _

He swallowed thickly. “...Eden says ‘Open like the First Time’ or whatever.”

The body he had pinned to the wall stilled, the hand stroking his cheek pulling away slowly. “Oh,” the creature breathed, as if simultaneously confused by the request and curious about the intention. A blush was beginning to stain its cheeks. “R-right here? There are many Others roaming. They will feel it for sure!”   
  
_ Yesss. Right here.  _

“They say to go ahead,” he murmured, his own curiosity piquing despite himself. What ever Eden was asking of their partner must have been something of great consideration if it gave them both such pause. 

Cygnet took a deep breath. “Alright...yes. If it will help.”

If  _ what  _ would help?

He opened his mouth to ask what they were planning but his tongue was a dead weight. A force the likes of which his mortal mind could never hope to fully comprehend butted against every atom in his body, reaching past the physical, reaching to Eden inside of him...Eden was responding in kind….

It was warm. It was light. It was all good things in universe rolling together to make something wholly new.

Except it wasn’t new at all.

Crowley knew this feeling well. He’d felt it the first time blue eyes met his own over a smudged pint glass, when bruised knuckles brushed the back of him hand, when lips brushed the mark at the side of his face, when an arm was boldly linked with his in public, when his body was tenderly pried open on the floor of a cottage, when blue eyes met his own once again across the space of the Masters parlour! So many times. Too many times to count. 

Love was a feeling he’d never forget.

Love sought him out.

He could feel him. 

Confused and waning.

Wanting but having forgotten what he wanted.

Crowley  _ would _ put it right. 

Aziraphale  _ would _ come back to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One reunion down...one to go.


	27. Chapter 27

Everything became confusing, for lack of a better word. Perhaps one of them should have expected that, given that four beings occupying the same space is a rather unheard of thing. Eden at least should have had the foresight to know that things could get messy very quickly. Crowley agreed, they should have known. It was unbridled chaos.

Oh. That was an independent thought. His own. He sighed in relief, feeling overwhelmed and more than a little disoriented. Well,  _ that _ was a thing. 

He quickly realized that the ‘thing’ wasn’t over yet.

All around him was darkness. Not the dark of night or a windowless room but the pitch blackness of an unknowable void. No light existed here. Without understanding  _ how _ he knew, Crowley recognized that Light had yet to be created. 

He also understood that, despite the blackness, he wasn’t alone. 

“I have a question,” a voice as familiar as his own was saying in a language Crowley was sure he had never learned, that he’d have no hope of ever learning. No human tongue could replicate it, afterall. 

“You always do.” Another voice, booming and terrifying, annoyed and amused in equal measure. “You were birthed with questions.”

“Do not tease your siblings, please.” A final voice, warm as a heath on a winter evening and all encompassing. It was soft yet big as the universe itself. Hearing it drew a whimper from Crowley before he could stop himself, before he could recognize why he’d even be whimpering. 

He knew this voice as if it were embedded into his very genes. Maybe it was. He was fairly certain he’d never heard anything quite like it before.

Eden continued, ignoring the second teasing voice completely. “Where does it end?”   
  
“Where does what end, little one?” The warm voice asked, curious. 

“It! All of it! Where does it all  _ end?  _ If there is a beginning there must be an end, yes?” Eden insisted, sure of themselves. “There can’t be Start without a Finish. What’s the meaning of everything after, then?”

The vast, annoyed voice answered in pitched, distressed tones. “I don’t get it. What is Start and Finish?”

“A start is a Birth,” Eden replied smartly. “You didn’t exist before then so that is your Beginning, right? So...where do you and I end? Is there an end? What are we to do without an end?” 

The annoyed voice blustered and growled, distressed. The dark seemed to shift. 

“A beginning and an end…,”the warm voice mused, as if such things had never occurred to it before. It was beyond such things. It had always been. There was no beginning for it. “Death is an end.”

  
The statement was met with a period of silence that could have stretched for minutes or decades, Crowley had no concept of time in this space. Then….

“What is Death, Mother?” It was hissed softly, as if they feared the answer they had asked for. 

“Death is the opposite of Birth, of Life. I have yet to birth it...but it is coming. It will be needed.”   
  
“Why?!” The booming, aggressive voice asked.

“To make the time between the Beginning and the End precious.” 

“Preciousss…,” Eden hissed softly, rolling the word about on their forked tongue. “What is precious?”   
  
“Many things.” 

“...am I?” The question took Crowley aback. Never had heard Eden sound so small, so uncertain. 

The warm voice chuckled and cooed. “You both are. You are precious to me and, if you allow it, you may be precious to others and, in return, they will be precious to you.”   
  
“I...do not understand,” the other voice grumbled. “I do not want to. Death...I do not approve of preciousness and Death.” 

“I do not either,” Eden hummed thoughtfully. “I would like to, though. I want to underssstand it. I want to know it.”   
  
There was a long pause.

“Then you will.” Another laugh. “I think I am ready to create something new. Are you both ready? Here it comes.  **LET THERE BE LIGHT.”**

It was blinding. Crowley shut his eyes against it, winced away. 

Aziraphale laughed at him. “Perhaps I should have given more warning!” He moved from the light switch, side stepping a tool box and planks of wood with ease. “At least we know the electricians did their job, yes?”

Rain pattered against the plate glass windows of what would become a bookshop. The air was stale and smelled of pine sawdust, proof that the contractors were doing their best to set up the frankly unheard of amount of shelves the man had asked for. Crowley all at once felt disoriented and at ease. 

“I’ll eventually have the back room set up as my office and a parlour for distinguished guests.” Aziraphale prattled, investigating one of the bookcases that had already been erected, testing his weight against it. “It connects to the cellar, after all. I think I’ll store my wine there.”   
  
Crowley could only nod mutely and stare as he tried to put his scattered thoughts together. Aziraphale was younger, the age that they first met. He was sporting a fading shiner and a much fresher split lip,evidence of how he had spent the evening. Neither injury seemed to dampen his spirits.

He was smiling, blues eyes sparkling in the low light of the swinging fixture. Crowley was acutely aware of his stomach doing the exact same precarious flip it had done all those years ago. 

Except...he hadn’t been there a moment ago, right?

“You’ll have to come up to the flat.” His head snapped up at the invitation, only to find Aziraphale busying himself with rearranging the contractors tools, avoiding his eyes but even in the limited light Crowley couldn’t miss dusty pink in his cheeks. “I have some good red. If you’d like, that is.”   
  
A quick, uncertain, glance was aimed at him. He could hear them as clear as his own thoughts, unspoken questions. Did I misread? Is this where you leave? Is this where you tell me I’m disgusting? Is this where you politely extract yourself?

He gave the same answer he did all those years ago, albeit with more certainty. “Lead the way, Aziraphale.”

White-blond brows pinched together. “Aziraphale? My name is Cygnet!” 

Wait. “No...it’s Aziraphale.”

“I’m quite certain it’s Cygnet, dear boy.” Arms were crossed over his chest, he took a step back from him and it was all Crowley could do to stop from reaching out. 

“No, Aziraphale, you’re not!” He nearly yelled it, confusion affecting him more than he’d like. “You’re Aziraphale!”   
  
The plate glass windows rattled. Star light was flooding in. Eyes were looking through, piercing both of them with their pointed gazes. 

“That’s Cygnet,” Crowley breathed in awe. He had never seen the creature before yet he knew that was what they were looking at. 

The front of the shop tore away. There was no Soho beyond, just a sparkling nest and space. Aziraphale yelped, a hand fluttering over his heart and staying there. 

Cygnet was huge, glorious, strangely beautiful, and terrifying in a way that Crowley couldn’t completely grasp. This was Aziraphale’s patron! This impossible, heraldic creature that shone in the dark?! 

...it fit. It was alarming how well it fit with the Aziraphale he knew. Bigger than life, beautiful, and frightening in ways that turned off many and enraptured Crowley completely. 

A perfect match. No wonder Aziraphale was having trouble parsing himself from the creature. 

Cygnet’s gaze turned from them, as if it remembered it was supposed to be doing something else. A task. A job. It gathered collected minerals and stones from the nest, opened its vertical mouth wide, and gorged itself on them. The eyes closed, its wings and tail spread wide, and it sang deep, deep down in its chest.

When it opened its maw again a bright, shining sword fell to the ground. Flaming and hard to look at. Cygnets eyes opened again, all of them blue, and it looked down at the blade critically. 

“Will it do what I asked?” The warm voice was back, except it sounded much more tired. Disappointed. Heartbroken. 

Cygnet bowed its long neck towards the dark of space. “It will.” It’s voice was sweet and buoyed Crowley’s spirits just by hearing it. He felt like anything was possible if he just believed it strong enough, had faith, remained hopeful-! 

The feeling passed as quickly as it came only to return with the force of a freight train when Cygnet spoke again. “...what am I to do now? Was this my purpose, Mother?”

“You choose your own purpose.”

“What do I do when the Eldest One asks for the same thing?”   
  
“What you feel is right.”   
  
“...I do not know what that is, Mother. Can you tell me?”

“I cannot. Do you want to know a secret, sweet Star? It comes with a price, this secret. It will steal something from you to ensure it is never repeated until I desire it.” 

Cygnet mulled it over, eyes slowly changing from blue to green. “I think I shall never rest until I know now that you have said it, Mother.”

“Very well.” They chuckled, soft and a tad pitying. “My sweet Star-”   
  
Aziraphale keened and fell to his knees, the scene was shattered, the secret lost. Crowley didn’t give a damn. He was already collapsing to his own knees and staring wide eyed at the other man. “What is it? What can I do?”

“I don’t know the secret. I don’t know it. Does that mean I’m not Cygnet?” The look in his eyes was wild and devastating, a man that was clinging to the remnants of his sanity and finding there was very little to hold on to. “How can I save you if I’m not Cygnet?!” 

“Save me?” He could hear his own confusion and hated it. He was so close to putting the pieces together but they weren’t sliding together correctly. “Save me from what?”

“I can’t leave you behind! You can’t leave me again! You’ll slither away because you’ll think it’s pity, not love. Who can love a snake? I can! I know how you can be, though!” He was despairing, pleading. “I need Cygnet so you’ll be happy with who you are and won’t leave!”

The pieces slotted together. “Aziraphale….” His heart was going to burst from his chest. This was for him. To save Crowley so they could be together and love each other-

He was surrounded by icy water. His lungs were burning. It was dark except for Aziraphale, white and bright as ever. Aziraphale who watched in dawning horror, who reached for him from his protective bubble and found Crowley just outside of his reach even though Crowley was kicking towards him in desperation. 

“Ah! Ssso you undid my deal!” Eden hissed, voice impossibly loud in the water. Except..there wasn’t any water. Only Crowley, dry and warm, on his knees and gasping for air, Aziraphale clinging to his side like a life preserver. “You almossst killed us, silly bird!”

All four of them were in a garden. Cygnet was fluffed up, all eyes open and white with fear. “I did not know! I only knew Aziraphale wanted, needed, desired! We touched and I made it so!” 

“I’m not angry, my preciousss one. We lived. We are here.” Crowley had always known Eden to be a serpent. He had known they were probably much larger than the snake he was eventually transformed into. 

He was not expecting the gigantic creature that slithered deftly through the garden on its luminescent, red belly. They lifted themselves like a king cobra, black scales glittering in Cygnets light, and butted their head against the Stars own lovingly.

He certainly didn’t expect the wings, neither the pair high up on their back nor the pair that fanned from their head like a crown. 

Crowley gaped and leaned his weight into Aziraphale. “Are you seeing this?” He asked as he watched the two beings sway together, radiating light. In fact, it was beginning to become hard to tell them apart. Where one began, the other ended or so it seemed.    
  
“Oh yes,” Aziraphale breathed in astonishment, smiling from ear to ear. “Are you feeling this?”   
  
He was. Love, love, love. Growing, yanking on him, turning him inside out. Not all of it was coming from the creature they could barely see. “Aziraphale,” he whispered, feeling dizzy with it. 

“Oh! My Darling!” Aziraphale’s face was close to his own. Everything was bright. He couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe. He could only reach out and hold tight.

He woke up to the smell of ash in the smoldering hallway of the Master’s house. He was holding ,and being held by, a familiar body. For a moment he could only breathe as he attempted to steel himself, to not let himself hope….

“Aziraphale?” He nearly choked on the fear in his throat. “Angel?” 

A hand lifted from the small of his back and carded through his hair tenderly. The body pulled away, just a few inches, far enough to look him in the eyes.

“My dearest….”

Angel smile. Angel eyes. Angel face. 

Angel lips.

For a moment, everything was wonderful.

For a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually finished this up yesterday. I wasn't happy with it, still ain't, but nothing ventured nothing gained right? Let's throw it at the wall and see if it lands.
> 
> I thought ya'll might find it funny to know that the word file for this is now so large it lags my computer. I predict it will start crashing before the we're all done.

**Author's Note:**

> Visit me at welcometoyielding.tumblr.com. 
> 
> Comments give me life.


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